Death Is For The Alive
by Defying.Expectations
Summary: Attend the afterlives of Sweeney Todd and Nellie Lovett. Toddvett/Sweenett.
1. Endings

**A/N: **Welcome to my first completed novel. Yes, I am beyond excited.

Just so everyone is aware, the ST storyline, in this fic, happens during the years 1841-1842 rather than the usual 1846-1847. But this doesn't make any difference until much later in the story.

I must now give two HUGE thank yous to the greatest betas in the history of the world (and no, I am not biased. Not in the least). They have both helped me with this story more than words can ever express . . . but that doesn't mean that I'm not going to make a valiant effort to express it in words now!

First, the lovely MrsRuebeusHagridDursley, aka my long-time beta/first reader, aka the co-founder and the only other person in our musical lovers club, aka my pal Morgan. She has known me for over a decade of my life and still puts up with me. I have no idea WHY she still puts up with me. She shouldn't. But she does, and for that, I am eternally thankful. Morgan is always willing to chat with me about the inane details of _Sweeney Todd_ at one in the morning, discuss the finer points of opium, and snatch Nellie and Sweeney's immense gin supply out of my hands just before I drown myself in it. Moreover, she does so with endless patience and kindness. I'm very lucky to call her my friend.

Second, a thank you to the also lovely Saime Joxxers, aka my ST anthropologist, aka my coochy coochy cooer, aka my buddy Robynne. This story is a freakin' monster in terms of both its length and its numerous structural problems – and I mean that in the most affectionate way, of course – but that never has deterred Robynne. I can say with full confidence that this story would be far more boring, cluttered, and downright ridiculous at times without her aid. Robynne is also always there to commiserate, complain, and celebrate both my writing successes and failures. Writing is an incredibly solitary and isolating experience, and, hokey as it might sound, it's wonderful to know that I'm not alone in this exhausting-but-ultimately-exhilarating journey that is the life of a starving writer. In summation, she is the awesomesauce.

And, as always, any and all feedback about this story is appreciated. I thrive on reviews.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own Sweeney Todd. All I own is a computer and a little bit of an imagination.

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><p><em>Who has not sat before his own heart's curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart. – Rainer Maria Rilke<em>

xxx

Sweeney Todd opened his eyes and found himself sitting on a chair in a large stone-walled room.

The place looked as though it had stepped off the pages of a history book detailing castles of the Middle Ages: circular-shaped; made entirely of gray, thick-set stones; the ceiling rounded in a dome. The furnishings were sparse, consisting only of stone-fashioned chairs. These chairs lined the walls, and around a dozen occupants sat upon them.

Where the bloody hell was he?

All of the people wore the same clothes: long, shapeless, black attires. If he had to liken them to something he'd seen before, he would have said they were some cross between dressing gowns and smocks. With a start, he realized he wore one too.

Sweeney, being a logical man, began to retrace his steps, searching his brain for his most recent memories. Anthony . . . yes, that's right, Anthony, he was bringing Johanna to his home, and Sweeney had written a letter to Turpin informing him of this to lure the judge into his shop. Turpin had arrived, and – had he – _yes_.

The barber's lips curved, basking at last in the glory of his revenge. Turpin had finally received what he deserved. His blood had been even more beautiful than Sweeney had fantasized about it being, all that red bathing his neck and pooling on the floor . . .

He strained again to remember what had happened after that. He had allowed his razor to finally sleep, then . . . he'd found a lad in the trunk . . . but the boy had escaped before he could slash his throat (he would have to take care of that lad later before the stupid boy went running to the authorities). Then a scream from downstairs had called him away, and

"_No no, not lied at all – now I never lied," she blurts out, a desperate croon and a loving invocation; he stares down at a tattered, bloodied woman, his black heart crying in a way he didn't think it could anymore._

He blinked at the sudden memory, its vividness having blinded him for a moment. No, that wasn't what happened next. It couldn't even be a real memory; he hardly ever went into Lovett's bakehouse, where that scene seemed to take place . . . and why would he care if that mad beggar woman was dead?

Her scream from downstairs, from the bakehouse . . . he'd run down there, hadn't he? Yes, he had, and Lovett had been dragging a body towards the oven –

His efforts to remember were interrupted yet again, this time by a stream of bubbling laughter. His teeth clenched automatically: Mrs. Lovett was here too, apparently.

She sat ten chairs from his right, dressed in the same black robes as everyone else. The man next to her, a weedy fellow with buck teeth, must have said something that amused her a good deal, for she was still giggling as she began her usual blathering.

Lovett being here did help him make a little more sense of the situation. She must have hauled the both of them here last night, perhaps getting him tipsy first so as to make him more compliant. He supposed he could ask her, but it was so rare that she was chatting someone else's ear off and not _his_ that he didn't want to disturb his few minutes of peace. She would be bothering him soon enough.

_There is no time, the judge is coming, and if the judge sees this batty woman in the barbershop everything might be ruined, and he can't afford to take risks, not now, not when he's so close, not when he can almost feel the judge's precious rubies moistening his skin and the bastard's fading heartbeat against his own fingertips. . . . Without hesitation he slits her throat and springs the trapdoor, letting her tumble down to the bakehouse. _

"Mr. T!"

Lovett bounced up from her chair and pranced towards him, effectively pulling him away from another intense – yet equally brief and unplaceable – memory (if that was, indeed, what they were, anyway).

"When did you get here, dear?" she asked as she flopped into the chair next to his. "I didn't see you come in. Y'know, I think I might've gotten a little too happy with the gin last night – I think Toby, bless him, has been a bad influence on me on that front! – 'cause I can't for the life of me recall how I ended up here. Maybe you can tell me a bit more about this place, since you seem to've found your way here sober? It must've been quite a drinking night all 'round. I was just talking to that gentleman over there, Mr. Ryan Shupkel, and he doesn't've a clue what this place is or how he wound up here either . . ."

She continued to prattle on, but Sweeney – as he was accustomed to doing – tuned her out, focusing on the essence of her words rather than their individual meanings. So she didn't know where this place was either – or was pretending she didn't, at least, for he didn't entirely believe her. How else would he have ended up here if it were not for her interference?

Or perhaps she really didn't remember. They might have both gotten inebriated last night and wandered here through dizzy, winding steps. Maybe they had been having a celebration over Turpin's death, forgotten proper drinking etiquette, and consumed too much. That made sense.

Whatever the reason, it was time to leave; there was clearly nothing further for him to do here. It was time for him to return to Fleet Street and . . .

Though he was not a man known for hesitating, in that moment Sweeney faltered. Return to Fleet Street and . . . what? What did he plan to do after that?

The judge was dead now. He had taken his revenge. But he had never really considered what he would do once Turpin was slaughtered. His appetite for vengeance had been satiated; he and his family had been vindicated.

It was all over. And life seemed strangely . . . blank.

No. It was not all over for him. He still had direction, a clear path he had longed to take ever since he returned to London:

_Johanna._

He dragged a breath through his nose. Why had he left his barbershop? Drunk or not, he had been waiting for his daughter, as per the arrangements with Anthony. The pair of them might already be on their way to his ship by now, and he hadn't yet had the chance to slit the boy's throat and finally hold the remains of his broken family.

Sweeney shot to his feet and started for the door on the other side of the room. It didn't matter how far Johanna and Anthony had or hadn't gotten. He would catch up to them. If it took days, weeks, even years, he would reach them. He wasn't about to let anyone or anything rend apart his life again.

"_Lucy . . . I've come home again . . ." He brushes his fingers across her face, down the side of her cheek, along her neck and across the incision, re-painting the pattern of splattered blood with his forever-stained fingertips._

Suddenly all that had seemed important to deduce – where he was, how he'd come to be here, when and how he could leave – meant nothing to him anymore, vanished from his mind as though they had never been there, disappeared as completely as the remains of his victims by the eager mouths of Lovett's customers. And the one thing he had focused so intently on ignoring up until now filled his entire view, suffocated each of his senses.

_We all deserve to die . . ._

_She_ most of all.

He whirled around. Lovett noticed his change in expression and her endless prattle ceased.

In one movement he stood in front of her, close enough to grab her by the waist and pull her into a deadly dance. But past was the time for manipulated steps. This blind rage presently swallowing him allowed no room for trickery or lies, only the desire to kill.

"You thought you would be able to get away with it, did you?" Sweeney hissed. Eyes wide and confused, Lovett jerked to her feet and began to retreat from him as he prowled closer. "You believed that your lies would remain unrevealed? That I would never find out? That we would – " he sneered " – go live by the sea together? I expected more from you, pet. You are normally so _practical_."

Her back hit the wall, trapped, as he closed in on her. "Mr. Todd – love – I don't know what you're talking about – "

"Yes, you do." The anger began to froth over; he slammed his hands against the wall on either side of her head, barely restraining himself from throttling her, his whispers becoming shouts. "You lied to me – you said she was dead."

Mrs. Lovett's eyes, already round as pennies, expanded further as they stared up at him. "You – know – "

"_Of course I know,"_ he spat between his clenched teeth.

Gasping, she shook her head. "Mr. T – I can – never meant to – didn't – "

Sneering, snarling, shaking, Sweeney reached for his belt to grab his razor.

His hand clutched at nothing but fabric.

His razor. Where was his razor? He never went anywhere without at least one of them by his side. And yet – apparently – he had today.

For a wavering minute, panic seeped into his skin, overtook him so thoroughly that his hands slipped from the wall to his sides, as though grasping at his clothes could call his razors to him. Even drunk, how could he have left them behind?

He told himself to regain control; slowly, he harnessed his alarm and tucked it away. Now was not the time to become hysterical. There would be plenty of time to find his friends later. After all, they couldn't go far.

Lovett, on the other hand, could.

When he at last noticed her sliding away from the wall, retreating away from him, a demonic grin stole over his face.

"No matter," he breathed, advancing. Stumbling backwards in her haste to get away from him, Lovett tripped over her robes – and that was all the time he needed to lunge forward and grab her, fingers embracing her throat. "No matter. I don't need a razor to hurt you."

She spluttered, reaching up with both hands to grapple at his merciless grip. "Mr. Todd – " her breathing was shallow " – please – " each taste of air a struggle " – I'm sorry – " she thrashed against him as best she could, but it would not be enough, and they both knew it " – only wanted what was best for you – " he bared his teeth in a hideous parody of a grin " – love – "

_She screams, piercing the air with a pitch beyond normal human reach, a scream to wake the dead – a scream to announce she is about to_ join_ the dead. The flames devour her, hot and hungry and unforgiving as he seals her fate with the slam of the oven door._

Sweeney released Mrs. Lovett so fast it was as though he himself had been scalded by the oven's fires. Shaking, he held his hands at arm-length from him, half expecting singe marks to erupt over his skin.

His eyes flicked from his fingers to Lovett. She had sunk to the floor, her robes puddled around her, overindulging in the ability to breathe through great gulps of air. Her chest heaved with each of her ragged inhales – moving – breathing – living – everything she should not be able to do. Her hands massaged at the necklace of bruises around her neck, the only marks upon her otherwise unblemished skin: no charred areas, no burn marks, no raw and peeling skin . . . no indications that she had died.

No indications that she had ever been anything less than alive.

He was dreaming. That was the only explanation. He'd watched her die – he'd _caused _her to die. She wasn't alive anymore. He was sound asleep now, dreaming, haunted by this satanic woman even after her death.

Lovett, still breathing hard, began to pick herself off the floor, her eyes never leaving his face. She took a step that was as cautious as it was fervent in his direction. "Mr. T – listen to me – I only did what I thought was best – "

The urge to seize her, throttle her, hurt her in every way he could struck him hard repeatedly, like growls in a famished stomach, with her every move. _She isn't real,_ he reminded himself over and over again, _she's dead, she's not real, harming her won't do any good, better to just wait until this hallucination is over. _

_Wait._

Her incessant chatter had taught him that much, at least.

She took another step towards him; the insatiable desire for her pain lurched within him again, hissing, spitting: _Snatch her_. He fought against the compulsion with every bit of self-control he had, his muscles visibly contracting beneath his clothes.

" – and I never lied, love – only said she took a poison, which she did – I never said that she died – "

_Shake her,_ it snarled, lashing against his side.

" – she lived, yes, but went completely mad from the arsenic – she's not the person you remember her as, she's not the person you loved, that woman's long gone – "

_Strike her._

" – should've gone to the hospital, but they threw her in Bedlam instead – Mr. T – " she moved even closer, within arm's reach " – please, just listen to me – "

_Suffocate her._

" – it was better for you to think she was dead – you wouldn't've wanted to know that was all that was left of her – "

_Kill her._

" – I didn't tell you – didn't want you to know, didn't think you could handle it – " her eyes, wide, heartfelt, welled with tears as he continued to remain immobile " – only did it because I love you – "

_Kill her._

" – she was hardly alive as it was – and she could never've cared for you the way I did – dammit, Sweeney, I'd be twice the wife she was – "

_Kill her kill her kill her._

The control shattered. A corpse coming to life, he dived towards her. But Lovett, expecting an attack this time, flitted out of his reach. He snarled and pounced again; she danced away from him, not turning her back on him for a moment.

He knew it was a dream. He knew she was a hallucination. He didn't care. Apparition or not, he needed to destroy her. Watching her burn clearly had not been enough, not nearly enough, not to repay her in full for the suffering she had brought upon him. He wanted her to feel every ache that he did a million times over, to make her feel every pain possible, for he knew that even if he were to inflict all manner of injuries upon her it would still not compare to what he felt, it would never compare, but oh, he would do his best –

_The metal slices into his skin, cold and sharp. It's pain beyond pain, pain that's excruciating, nearly unbearable, and yet it is nothing compared to the pain within him, the pain twisting his shriveled heart, as his grip upon her lifeless body grows slack. Black curtains are being drawn around his eyes, black curtains splattered with red – it's red – everything is always red – and the world is fading, fizzling away . . ._

That was when he began to question whether where he was at present really _was_ a dream.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are love.


	2. Welcome To The Grave

_The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love. – Margaret Atwood_

xxx

Nellie Lovett was more than used to the unstable persona of her barber, what with his rapidly changing moods: sulking by the window one minute, smiling at his blood-spattered fantasies the next, putting one of his 'friends' to a customer's throat the one after. That saying about women being the temperamental ones – well, those hoity-toity blokes who sat around all day coming up with those phrases clearly had never met Sweeney Todd.

Then again if they _had _met Sweeney Todd, she mused to herself with a half-twist of her lips, they wouldn't have lived long enough to correct their past mistake.

Despite this, unease chewed at her as Sweeney – who had moments before been pursuing her with a singly-determined purpose, imitating the timeless dance of predator and prey – had gone rigid. He did not even seem to see her anymore. Which, she supposed, was a good thing, considering he'd been aiming to murder her.

And on the subject of him trying to kill her, why was it that not one of the room's other occupants had interfered? One would think that, if a citizen saw a poor woman on the cusp of being murdered, they would try and stop the attempted killer rather than just loiter around. Maybe Sweeney was onto something with his thoughts about people being filled with shit.

After peering at Sweeney to confirm he wasn't about to assault her again, Nellie glanced around the room at the good-for-nothings in the chairs. They were just sitting there, staring off into space, those blockheads. Her attention was caught by Ryan Shupkel, the man she had been chatting with before noticing Sweeney. He was bent over in his seat, head in his hands, his body wracking: he was crying.

Nellie wasn't used to seeing men cry. There seemed to be some unspoken rule: whereas a female was expected to have a good cry every now and then, males seemed to think it wasn't becoming for them, that it wasn't a masculine. She didn't understand why. It was a perfectly normal thing to do, an entirely natural bodily function.

Still, to see this man crying in plain sight of everyone surprised her. Darting another quick glance at Sweeney, she treaded over in his direction.

"Mr. Shupkel?" she asked quietly, sitting in the chair on his left.

Through the shutters of his fingers, his eyes swam up to meet hers, watery and red-rimmed.

"Mr. Shupkel, whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, Mrs. Lovett . . ." Shupkel blubbered, stemming a spout of snot with his sleeve. "I've just realized – that is, I've just remembered . . ." He trailed off purposely, as though waiting for her to finish his thought.

"Just remembered what, dear?" Nellie hummed with a distracted air, putting a hand on his shoulder as she glanced over to Sweeney, who still had not moved. Her anxiety began to increase. Mood swings were one thing. No mood at all – especially following a desire for blood he'd yet to fulfill – was a whole separate matter. Were it not for her neck – where the places his fingers had pushed still throbbed a painful cadence – she would have already been at his side, cooing and coaxing him to sit down, to relax, to tell her what was wrong.

But, then again, he looked far from murderous now, only vacant and lost, poor thing . . . he wouldn't hurt her in this state. . . . She was just about to go to him when a hand pressed down upon hers.

"Oh, but you_ haven't_ yet, have you?" Shupkel inquired, in the manner of one who knows the answer and wishes the opposite were true.

"Haven't what?" she asked, trying not to reveal her waning patience. But Shupkel's only response was to break into a fresh wave of tears, pressing his face into the crook of her outstretched arm.

She grimaced. "Really, love, what're you on about? I really don't know what – "

"_OH NO!" The pain in his face, his body, his soul, is too much, and she winces away, unable to look, to witness, but she can still hear his anguished cries, the broken soul, as he now moans, "Don't I know you, she said?"_

This was not the first glint of a recollection Nellie had seen during her time here – but it was the first to send a convulsion rocketing through her body.

So he had known even before they arrived at this place that Lucy had been alive. Her secret had been revealed, literally, right before his eyes. The question, then, was simple: why was _she_, Nellie Lovett, still alive? What had stopped Sweeney from killing her? For surely after finding out in such a way – realizing he had murdered his wife – he would have wanted nothing more than to crush the woman who had kept this fact hidden, even if she had done it for him . . .

For what must have been the millionth and first time, she scoured her brain for her most recent memories. She had been down in the bakehouse, looking for . . .

_Toby._

Her heart trembled. She had not, did not want to kill him – he was the son God had never given her, the child she always wanted – but when push came to shove, she chose Sweeney over him. She always chose Sweeney over anything, over everything. Guilt over her choice wrapped her in an inescapable, cold embrace even now, and she hoped, prayed, that her boy would be granted a better life in heaven, far away from demons like her –

_Focus, Eleanor._ Wasn't it she who lectured on not dwelling in the past? What was done was done. Right now, she needed to figure out where she was, how'd she gotten here, and how to leave.

"Forgive me," Shupkel hiccoughed, removing his face from her arm as he patted it. "I'm not – normally – this emotional – but – how else is one supposed – to react – when they first comprehend – "

"_Die! _Die_! God in heaven, _DIE_!" She grabs fistfuls of her skirts and jerks them out of his grasp. His fingers clutch at nothing, then still, and his rasping breathes at last cease._

" – and I never had the chance to say good-bye to my darling Bethany – "

"Sorry dear, what was that?" Nellie asked Shupkel, more out of habit than concern, as she cast her gaze to Sweeney once more. So he'd finally gotten his revenge. Maybe he'd finally be able to focus on something other than the bloody judge, then.

"Bethany, my wife," said Shupkel, oblivious to her distraction, his eyes shining. "The love of my life, you know – and now I can never tell her how much I – "

He was interrupted by the creaking of an old wood-plank door on the opposite end of the room. The parted doorway revealed a stern-faced woman muttering to herself in rapid French, eyebrows drawn low over her eyes as her bony fingers ruffled through a stack of papers, consulting them and making tally marks as she went. Nellie wondered if she should go over and talk to the woman – perhaps she knew how Nellie had ended up in this strange place.

Before Nellie could make up her mind on the matter, the French woman glanced up, pointed to six people in the room (Nellie and Sweeney among them), and motioned for the group to follow her. No one moved.

Though she had been pondering going over to speak to the woman, Nellie now found this idea deplorable. It was one matter to go over and speak to the woman of her own accord; it was entirely another to be_ summoned_ over. Who did this woman think she was? Did she honestly expect them to just follow her like a flock of blundering sheep?

The French woman did not seem deterred. She showed no emotion at all, in fact, as though quite used to these sorts of displays.

_Swallow your pride, Lovett. Go follow her. She might be able to explain how you got here. Answers are more important than whatever semblance of dignity you're clinging to._

"'S'cuse me, Mr. Shupkel, I'll be on my way now," she said to the man, whose eyes were still leaking; he mumbled a good-bye and proceeded to blow his nose against his sleeve.

She rose to her feet and started towards the woman, jaw set. The eyes of the others in the room seemed to burn into her back. As though gaining confidence from her bravery _(or stupidity)_, footsteps began to sound on the floor behind her, indicating that she was being followed.

Familiar fingers came to rest against the back of her neck. Her skin prickled as the usual cocktail of apprehension, elation, and desire from his touch deluged her soul. The pressure of his fingertips against her skin was light, almost cursory. The others in the room would most likely view it as one of those tender, absent gestures between sweethearts. She knew better. This was a silent threat, a warning that she was not to try and escape before he was through with her.

Did this mean he had broken out of his stupor, then? She dared a glance at him. Though Sweeney seemed to be in better control of his limbs (for he was walking without a problem), the lost look still hadn't left his face. And though it went against all her better instincts and judgments – for his fingers, however softly they rested against her skin, could probably snap her neck at a moment's notice – she found herself asking, "Are you alright, love?"

He didn't answer, just continued walking forward, matching her easy gait, but this in itself was strangely reassuring. The alarming response for him would have been a reply of any kind, whether word or gesture. Her barber was a man of few words.

Once their group of six had reached the French woman, she ushered them through the doorway and closed the door. They now stood in a long corridor, low-ceilinged, but the same in design as the room they'd been in moments before. What looked to be at least four dozen wood doors, polished and smooth, with writings in many languages (some of which she'd never even seen before) upon them, extended down the hall as far as her eyes could see. Most of the doors were shut, but three of them stood half-open.

The French woman walked towards one of the open doors, glanced at it, then pointed to two of the group and motioned them forward. The pair, two dark-skinned men, moved forward cautiously. The woman then moved on to the next open door and repeated her routine, though this time she pointed at Nellie and Sweeney.

"Now, just a minute," said Nellie, putting her hands on her hips and narrowing her eyes. She was getting impatient with this whole ambiguity act. "Why should we listen to anything you say? You've yet to tell us anything about what's going on, and I'm not going anywhere 'til I know – "

The French woman stared at her, placid. "Je ne parle pas anglais."

"You don't speak English? Oh, well, that's not a problem," Nellie replied with a half-shrug, before switching dialects, doing her best to recall all the French her mother had taught her. "Je ne comprends pas pourquoi ou comment – "

"Explain here," the French woman said in fractured English, her words heavy with boredom, as she jabbed an insistent finger to the room she had motioned them into a minute before.

"And why should I go in there?" Nellie demanded, forgetting in her anger that the woman didn't understand Nellie's native tongue. "I don't know where I am – arrived here in some drunken stupor last night, I s'pose – and yes, I know I've got no one to blame but myself for that. But someone could at least enlighten me on where I am – because quite frankly, dear, this is a godawful place, and I'd like to get home soon as possible."

Still, the French woman stayed put, waiting, pointing. From her stolid expression, it looked as though she was used to this too; maybe a lot of tipsy folk ended up here and made huge scenes the morning after.

"And what sort of place is this, anyway?" Nellie ranted on. "I'd almost think it was a castle if it wasn't so gloomy everywhere. All this gray and strange light and – how is this place lit, anyway? You've got no candles anywhere, or gas lamps, or windows, or – or anything – and yet somehow this place is as lit as though – as though the sun were inside."

Nellie glanced around in bewilderment as she said this. She hadn't realized it until now, but it was true. There did not seem to be any source of light in this corridor, or – come to think of it – the room she'd been in before, yet there was no lack of light. She could see perfectly fine.

"This is exactly what I mean!" she cried out. "Nothing about this sodding place makes sense, and you – standing there – all of you – " she turned on the other two who had been led into the corridor with she and Sweeney, and they stared back with faint confusion " – don't answer any questions, don't say a damn word about why all this is – "

She broke off her tirade as a man's head poked out from within the doorway of the room the French woman stood before. "Excuse me, madam." His words, spoken with careful deliberation and a hint of an accent, revealed that English had not been his first language. Still, he seemed confident in his ability to speak it. "If you would kindly come in here, I will explain."

She was going to refuse, going to demand to know how to get out of here, but his intonation was kind, his smile genuine, his eyes honest, and it had been so long since she had met a man who had no deceit whatsoever within his gaze . . .

And so she found herself believing him, walking towards him. Sweeney, with his hand still at the back of her neck, moved in time with her without seeming to register his movements, an extra limb on her body.

"There we go," said the man as she and Sweeney passed through the doorway, before shutting the door behind them, "have a seat, have a seat."

This room, too, was stone-walled and gray, though it was much smaller, perhaps the size of a bedroom. A desk sat square in the middle, papers littering its surface, two chairs on one side of it and one chair on the other. The man took the seat that was by itself, and his companions followed his lead, taking the seats on the opposite side.

Nellie wasted no time in becoming vocal again.

"Who're you? What is this place? What's the matter with that woman who took us in here, why's she so unwilling to try and explain anything? And Shupkel? What's wrong with him? At first he didn't seem to know where he was either, like me, but then he started acting as loony as some of them in Bedlam, going on about _haven't _I this and no I _clearly_ haven't but oh it's so_ terrible_, and what – "

"Please," said the man, reaching for some papers upon the desk, "please. I will explain all in good time."

Nellie _hmph_ed to herself and leaned back in the chair; Sweeney's fingers, still at the base of her neck, twitched with her motion, but he did not come out of his stupor.

The man began to pour over an exceedingly long piece of paper of what looked to be a list of names, with various check marks, x's, and scribbled notes accompanying the margins. He was a fairly handsome man, perhaps ten years her junior, with smooth dark hair and copper-colored skin. Definitely hadn't been born in London, though where he was originally from, she couldn't place. Egypt, perhaps, or maybe Arabia.

As she studied him with glowering eyes, torn between interest and frustration, he continued to scan the list, until finally jabbing at an item on the list with his finger and looking up at her. "So. Eleanor Lovett, yes?"

Nellie gaped. "I beg your – who – how d'you know my name? What is this, some sort of mass organized kidnapping stunt, where you – "

"And then," the man muttered to himself, returning to the list, running his finger down the items, "you are probably . . ." The finger paused, and his eyes flicked to the barber. "Benjamin Barker?"

Sweeney did not move, did not twitch. The only part of him to awaken were his eyes, their dark depths burning with all the fires of hell. "No," he said, a flat, unfeeling syllable.

"Oh, c'mon, love – if they already know who you are, there's really no point in hiding, is there?" Nellie said. Sweeney didn't acknowledge her whatsoever, but he had gone back to impassively staring at his lap, so she took that as an acceptance of her words.

"And you didn't answer me," she went on, rounding on the strange man again. "How do you know our names?"

"All in good time," he said again, making several marks on his list.

Nellie was normally a patient woman. She had waited patiently until every member of her family was awake before opening Christmas presents as a child, waited patiently while her parents found her a husband, waited patiently for the child she realized later she could never birth, for her love to come home to her, for her pies to bake, for her clothes to dry, for Toby to relinquish her gin bottle, for her barber to notice her, for her nightmares to end. . . .

She was done waiting. She needed to know what was going on – and she needed to know now.

"Well, at least tell me your name," she snapped, "put us on _marginally_ more equal footing."

He looked up at her and grinned. "It's Barsid. Barsid Sajemgi."

"Thank you kindly," said Nellie, but he did not seem to catch the sarcasm, for he merely nodded.

At last, Barsid put his list to the side, along with his pen. "Alright. Now that I've got you checked off – "

"Where the ruddy hell are we?" Nellie interjected.

Barsid smiled. However nice of a smile it was, she was starting to get annoyed with it. "I was just getting there," he told her, and then spread his hands in a welcoming gesture. "This's Is."

"This's . . . what?" Nellie questioned after a heartbeat of silence.

"No, that's where we are," Barsid explained, with the air of a man who never tired of a joke he'd told many times before. "Is."

She squinched her eyes at him. "Is . . ."

"Yes." His expression grew serious, the smile slipping away. "Now, I am about to deliver a lot of information. Most of what I say will probably upset and disturb you."

There wasn't much that could 'disturb' two people who helped others partake in cannibalism, Nellie mused to herself, but she held her tongue.

"But I must ask you to please do your best and refrain from interrupting me, for it will save us all time. All your questions may be asked once I am finished."

Barsid folded his hands atop his desk. "So. Welcome to Is – the afterlife."

Sweeney's grip on her neck tightened ever so slightly, but Nellie paid him no mind. Of all the replies she had been expecting, that certainly wasn't one of them. Really, if the man was going to lie about the place, one would think he would at least try and make up a _convincing_ lie.

"The _what_?" she said.

"The afterlife is a place your soul goes to post-death when your body has stopped working – "

"I know what the afterlife is," said Nellie, waving her hand, "I just don't understand why you're bothering to go through all the trouble of creating such an elaborate story when it's so ludicrous that no one will even – "

"Excuse me, Eleanor," said Barsid, "but you're interrupting."

She pressed her lips together.

"I cannot explain how you died – the memories of your last moments on Earth drift back to you in fragments while here, and some recall the moment of their death faster than others." Nellie's stomach did twist a bit at that; how did he know she was being hit with occasional brief, blinding recollections? "Your death – and arrival here – were beyond your and my control, but now – "

"So you're not God?" Nellie couldn't help putting in, a sarcastic bite to her tone. "You're not running this whole show?"

Barsid shook his head. "No, no. There is no God here."

Humoring him, going along with his story line, Nellie asked, "He doesn't exist, then?"

"I do not know." For all his insistence that he didn't want to be interrupted, he _did _tend to answer her questions. "There are no gods, deities, or 'higher powers' of any sort here. Perhaps they exist in other afterlives, outside of here, but within Is – "

"_Other _afterlives? So there's more than just 'Is'?"

"Yes. I do not know for sure what other realms are out there, but I know there must be several, because not everyone who dies ends up here . . . only some."

"Mmm, so we're the special ones, are we?"

Barsid massaged his temples. "As I said earlier, this will go a lot faster if you do not interrupt. Now . . . as I was – "

"It doesn't make sense."

The words were so quiet Nellie at first assumed she had imagined them (well, it wouldn't have been the first time she'd fantasized his voice). Sweeney never participated in a conversation unless half-forced into it; him volunteering any words without severe prompting would be like a pig sprouting wings. No, a pig sprouting wings was more likely, come to think of it. Besides, he hadn't even been listening to what was going on between she and Barsid . . . had he? But when she looked over at Sweeney, his eyes were steady on Barsid's.

"I know this is a difficult adjustment," said Barsid with teetering patience, "but I really must ask you both to be quiet. Our goal here at Is right now is to help you get used to your new circumstances, but you must understand that you are dead – "

In an instant, Sweeney's hand snaked from the back of Nellie's neck to the front, gripping hard; she spluttered, coughing, tears of pain welling in her eyes. Barsid let out a loud "oh!" and pushed his chair away from his desk with a spasm of his legs.

"If we are dead," Sweeney snarled between his teeth, not releasing Nellie, "then why can I touch her? Why can I hold her? And why does she feel pain? Spirits aren't supposed to be able to feel anything physical – we have no corporeal bodies."

"Hallucinations," said Barsid with haste, "now sir, let go of the woman – "

"A hallucination of touch? Of pain?" His eyes flicked to hers, and she held his gaze, terrified of everything that was happening, everything that was being explained, everything that wasn't. "Do you think you're hallucinating the pain, pet?"

She was too faint to shake her head.

"It isn't a hallucination as you would define it in Earth terms – that is, it's not how you would have used the word when you were living – it has a somewhat different meaning here – "

Barsid, anxious, was babbling. She hoped that he'd be able to make his point quick. She'd already been grabbed around the neck once today; she was on the point of passing out, perhaps dying (though that, supposedly, was debatable).

"You see," said Barsid haphazardly, "you both know what to expect – you both know what skin feels like, that's why you can feel it – and you know what it feels like to grab something, which is why she seems solid – and she knows that she's supposed to feel pain, and that if strangled enough she'll eventually faint. Spirits hallucinate what they know they're supposed to feel – or smell, or taste, or body functions that they know they're supposed to perform – the only senses that are real here are sight and hearing – but everything else is just a hallucination – "

Barsid seemed to be scrabbling for more to say, but Sweeney chose that moment to relinquish his grip upon her, his fingers caressing the fresh marks he'd imprinted there as he removed them from her neck, placing his hands in his lap, retreating into his usual private cage. She hated herself for the fleeting prickle of delight that crept over her skin from the contact, even as her heart continued to thrash in her chest and her breaths came out fast and strained.

"Well." Barsid cleared his throat and shifted his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes. As I was saying – "

"If you – don't mind," Nellie managed to communicate between sucking in air, "I'd like some – clarification – on that whole – hallucination business – that you just – mentioned."

Barsid shrugged, easing his chair back into its former position, and gave her another of those smiles of his. "Not much else to 'clarify' about them, really. It is what it is."

Nellie's lip curled, her derision making her forget her aching lungs. "That's your answer?"

"It's a common saying we have here on Is," said Barsid, grin broadening, his alarm from seconds before already gone. "Amusing, don't you think?"

She threw up her hands. "Alright. Let's just say, for the time being, that you're telling the truth, and we're all dead and now our spirits are floating around on this 'Is.' You still haven't told us what 'Is' _is_. Is it like hell – are we being punished? Or is this limbo? Or a place we wait in before we're reincarnated?"

"The truth?" Barsid chewed his lip. "We don't really know."

"What in the name of – "

He held up his hands, and for once she complied and fell silent.

"It's true," he continued. "As I've said, there are no all-powerful or all-knowing beings on Is. Everyone here is just like you two – normal humans whose time on Earth has ended. But no, this is not a place of punishment. Nor is it a place where you wait in limbo, or a place where you are reincarnated. It just is." He smiled. "That's another of our sayings. But moving on . . .

"In general, our goal is to keep Is as comfortable a place as possible, as the spirits who come here are here forever. Well, there are a few who have disappeared over time, but . . . we don't talk about them." Nellie raised an eyebrow, to which he replied, "It's a bit of a nasty subject – they wandered too far and got lost, is what we believe. Poor souls. Gone forever to the peripheries of the nether world . . ."

She still was having a hard time buying into all this. Dead? It just didn't make sense. She didn't remember dying. Well, she didn't remember much of anything at the moment, but even so. She knew that when she passed on – God willing that wouldn't be for a good many years – she would go to hell, or some other place of punishment. People like her didn't deserve anything less.

"So . . ." said Nellie, deciding to continue to go along with this man until he really told them the truth about this mob organization. "Why did _we_ end up here?"

Barsid's teeth gleamed, annoyingly white and straight. "It is what it is."

"'Course it is," Nellie muttered to herself, clucking her tongue, "wouldn't be anything else, would it? It is what it is, honestly, who the hell even came up with – "

_It burns, it burns, it burns, oh God does it burn, and it's everywhere, eating her up, devouring her, and if it didn't hurt as much as the fires of hell then she might find it ironically amusing that she is to die by her own oven. All the while she is staring, staring into his eyes, and they stare back at her, so dark and so angry and so hateful and – damn them – still so beautiful, and even after he slams the door those eyes still stare at her through the grate, staring, staring, and then the grate shuts and everything is black._

Nellie jumped and clutched herself in a hug, squeezing her eyes shut. The burning, the pain, would it never end –

But it _had_ ended. It was just a memory now.

Her eyes flew open.

"Oh," said Barsid, all too knowingly, "you've just _recalled_, haven't you?"

She ignored him. She hardly heard him. Her head whipped to the side to look at Sweeney, who merely stared at his hands, stationary.

"You killed me," she said, far too many emotions struggling to be expressed in her tone.

He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Which was a good deal more of a response than she usually got out of him, but it sure didn't satisfy her today.

"You killed me," she said again, louder.

Those dark, wrathful eyes pinned her again, and he struck her with the ever-familiar words: "You lied to me."

"Oh, so murder is an acceptable punishment for perjury now, is it? I must've missed _that _announcement. And I told you, I never lied, I never said a single thing that wasn't true – I did what_ you_ do all the time, what with claiming to give 'the closest shave in London,' skirting 'round the truth – "

"You deserved to die," he growled. "It's because of you that she's dead."

"Well, that's rich," she snorted. "The man who kills for a living decided to do away with his landlady for 'killing' his wife. Funny thing is, though, I never laid a finger on her – it was you, after all, who slashed her throat open – "

His hands were twitching, eyes wild, and she knew she was toeing that fine line between having his hands on the arms of his chair or around her neck. "Which I never would have done if you hadn't _lied_. And now – " clouds of despair began to roll into his eyes, breaking up the dark storm of hatred " – now – dead – Lucy – "

"Your Lucy . . .! That wasn't Lucy, Mr. T, that wasn't her." She was pleading again, something she hated, but she couldn't help it, she couldn't bear to see him in such raw pain. "She hadn't been Lucy for some time, she wasn't the lady you'd married, the woman you'd loved – all that you knew'd been destroyed – "

He couldn't hear her, had gone back to – as he usually did – trying not to hear her. And this made her angry; her volume and fury resounded in her timbre again as she shouted, "You wouldn't've wanted to know that was all that was left of her, just some crazy hag – "

"That was your fault too, I bet," he hissed, smoldering with rage again as he leaned towards her, so close it was dizzying. "I doubt you really tried to stop her from taking the poison – you probably forced it on her."

She was stung. "Of course not – how could you think that of me, Mr. T – Lucy was a silly thing – but I never wanted – I never tried – to harm her – "

Somewhere in the background she could hear a voice – she didn't know whose – calling out to them, but the words didn't register, the speech garbled in her ears. Her world had narrowed to only the man in front of her, looming so close. He was shaking with anger, and she knew he hated her now more than he ever had before, but she couldn't prevent the usual effects his close proximity had on her from sweeping across her body: that vertiginous, disorienting feeling where the floor was water and the air nonexistent and all that was keeping her from falling away entirely was him . . .

His nose was nearly touching hers, his voice hardly a whisper, when he spoke: "If I could kill you again, Mrs. Lovett, I would. Over and over again."

There was nothing remotely loving in any part of his tone or demeanor, and she knew that, knew it full well . . . but she still felt dizzied, light-headed, desirous. He seemed to perceive this from her expression, and disgust tinged his countenance. He did not speak, but she could read the word _whore_ in his eyes.

She finally managed to distinguish the unknown voice's words as Sweeney drew away from her and retreated into himself: ". . . and we really must be getting on with things, there are bound to be many more people waiting by now – I don't mean to – erm – interrupt, but . . ."

She realized who was speaking too: it was the man sitting across from her. Barsid. Yes. Barsid Sajemgi, from Is. The afterlife.

Nellie straightened herself, looking anywhere but in Sweeney's direction. Now that her head was screwed on again, she was repulsed with herself. How was she able to still love the man who had killed her?

No, it wasn't love. She didn't love him. Not anymore. No one in their right mind would love their murderer. The anger throbbed through her veins again. How could he have done this to her?

But that was in the past, and there was certainly nothing she could do about it now. She was going to go on with her life – well, afterlife – just as Barsid had said. An afterlife that didn't involve _him_. That feeling she had just experienced – that was just lust. She'd just have to be careful not to duplicate that little scene again lest those carnal desires return – although she doubted that he would want a repeat of it either.

"Are you with me?" Barsid questioned in soft tones.

Nellie nodded. "Mmhmm. Of course. Carry on with – whatever you need to carry on with."

"Yes. Well." Barsid, though he had been looking uneasy, resumed his business-like manner with a fair amount of ease. The man must have been used to seeing all sorts of unfinished dramas, she supposed. "You've been told the basics, but there is still the matter of how you are going to spend your time here on Is.

"Now, technically speaking, we have no real 'needs' here on Is. There is no need to eat, sleep, use the restroom, bathe, or any of the other basic compulsions that drive human existence. All of these actions are still available to you, certainly, but there is no need to do them. But living without direction is pointless, which is why we encourage all inhabitants of Is to – for the most part – live a fairly normal life."

"You mean death," Nellie put in. She could still feel the angry heat Sweeney's body radiating against her left side, and tried to curl further against the right arm of her chair, out of his warmth's reach.

"Life after death does not necessarily mean you are any less alive," Barsid replied cryptically. Nellie thought that sounded like a good lot of nonsense. "You can still live on Is, even if you're just a spirit. That's why we suggest all people on Is to get involved with the community. Establishing a job is usually the first step. This can be something that you did on Earth, or something you never had the chance to do – whatever you like. Here at Is, the afterlife is about enjoying yourself and living to the fullest."

Nellie thought she might be ill. Did he come up with this sickeningly sentimental rubbish himself?

"We can establish business premises for you right away, or a bit later, if you'd like some time to yourself first, though we do encourage everyone to not spend too long sulking over their death. What profession do you think you would like to enter into, Eleanor?"

"Baker." She couldn't see herself doing anything else. Though she wasn't entirely sure what the point would be to making food for a bunch of ghosts.

"Excellent!" Barsid exclaimed. "The people here will be thrilled. And you?" he asked, turning to Sweeney.

She kept her eyes on Barsid, afraid what her reaction would be if she looked at him, but heard the emotionless response of "barber" from her left.

"Unfortunately, you can't be a barber," said Barsid, frowning. "You see, as we are spirits, our hair doesn't grow anymore, so having one with the profession of cutting hair . . ."

"What do you mean, our hair doesn't grow?" Nellie demanded. "If we can hallucinate eating and sleeping and using the bloody toilet, why can't we hallucinate hair growing out?"

"I'm sorry, that's just the way it is," said Barsid in an annoyingly benign way.

Sweeney had never been anything but a barber, and he took such enjoyment from the profession . . . or once had, at least. She wondered what he would do instead. She wondered what he was thinking. Then she wondered why she cared.

"Well, how about I give you some time to think on what you would like to do instead?" Barsid asked Sweeney.

Sweeney didn't answer. Nellie almost replied for him that that'd be fine, as she was prone to doing, but stopped herself short. Bloody Sweeney Todd would just have to fend for himself from now on.

"Well, then," said Barsid after a pause. He rose from his seat and opened the door leading back out to the corridor. "If you both come with me, we'll go find you an escort who will show you to your rooms. Each inhabitant of Is receives two rooms – one for their living quarters, and the other for their business, whatever it might be. If you are the owner of these rooms, you can move back and forth between them simply by passing through the far wall." He grinned. "That's one of my favorite parts of being a specter. Saves a lot of time, you know. Not that time really matters here, since spirits cannot age, but we do keep schedules and have clocks and suchlike. We want to make the experience here as much like Earth as we can, after all – the enjoyable aspects of Earth, that is . . ."

As Barsid babbled, he led an inexpressive Sweeney and a silent Nellie down to the end of the corridor, where three solemn-faced people stood, looking as though they were guards. Guarding what, Nellie wasn't sure. It was just a wall. Maybe they just liked standing straight and appearing official.

Barsid handed a man who looked to be African a sheet of paper. "Take these two to their rooms."

The African man nodded, and without a word, he turned and headed down the hall branching towards the left. Nellie presumed they were supposed to follow, and so she did, Sweeney's treading steps beside her.

"Good Lord," she muttered, for facing them was yet another long corridor, the same in appearance as the last. At the end, this hallway too branched off two ways, left and right . . . and then this pattern was repeated yet again . . . and again . . . and again. How was she ever going to find her way around this place? There weren't any sort of landmarks or address numbers or _anything_!

After going through this five or six times, the corridors began to have doors with names printed upon them in delicate gold print. So these must be the residential rooms, then. _Emily Mary Trevors – Magdalena Rachel Schwartz – _one in a language that looked like hieroglyphs– some other language she didn't recognize –_ Sylvia Carolyn Jacobson – Chadwick D. Bordman_ – at first, she tried to read them all, but gave up when her eyes began to blur.

Dead. She was dead. A part of her still wondered if this wasn't some elaborate kidnapping. Or a dream, maybe. This was all too strange to really be happening . . . and yet, it wasn't. Her death made sense, as awful as it was to think that. Sweeney certainly wouldn't have spared her after he killed his wife.

And she'd never been entirely sure that there was only a heaven and a hell in the afterlife. People weren't all good or bad . . . surely there was a place for both. Then again, she still didn't know why she'd ended up here. Maybe it had nothing to do with what you'd done while alive.

Alive . . . a word that no longer applied to her.

Not liking that she was beginning to feel sorry for herself, Nellie turned her attention to their 'escort,' who still had not said a word.

"Not very talkative, are we?" she said to him as they continued down endless corridors. "What's your name, anyway, love?"

"Akello," the man replied in a soft, even pitch.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Nellie."

"Pleasure to meet you too," Akello echoed.

"Know your way around these halls pretty well, do you?" she inquired, determined to keep up a conversation – it kept her thoughts from straying in unpleasant directions.

"Fairly well, yes."

"How many halls are there?"

"I have no idea." Akello stopped walking. "Here we are." Sure enough, they had reached her room. Branded across the door in the uniform gold letters was _Eleanor Lynnette Lovett_.

"Home sweet home," she muttered to herself, and was just about to ask for the key to her room when the name on the door straight across from hers snagged her eye: _Benjamin Tam Barker._

So her killer lived in the room across from hers. Perfect. Who the hell ran this place? You'd think they'd have the common sense to not make a rooming arrangement like _that_.

"Are these room assignments permanent?" she demanded.

"Yes," Akello replied.

"So there's no possibility of changing it, then?"

"Why do you want to?"

_Well, you know, it's a bit unsettling having the man who shoved you into an oven residing right across the hall from you._

"That man and I – we don't have the most stable of relationships," she said instead. That was just as much the truth as her more blunt musings. "Staying in the room across from him doesn't seem like a good idea for either of us." Not that their living arrangement had been much different in life, but still. This was death; times had changed.

"I am sorry," said Akello, "but the rooms cannot be changed. Is has a very structured system of dividing up living quarters and shops. You are given rooms next to those who, chronologically, have died just before you. Although occasionally this orderly system is disrupted when an older room becomes available . . . and then the next soul to arrive here is given that room instead."

Nellie pursed her lips. "Why would an older room become available?"

"We do not talk about it," was Akello's prompt reply.

She was growing frustrated again. _"Why?"_

"It is what it is, madam. I am sorry."

"What is it with you lot and – "

"That's not my name," Sweeney intoned in a low voice, effectively breaking up Akello and Nellie's conversation. With some trepidation, she looked at him, but his customary stony expression was fixed in place, revealing nothing as he stared at the name of the man he'd once been printed upon his door.

"You are not Benjamin Barker?" Akello questioned softly.

Sweeney jerked his head: _no._

"You are called Ben? Benny?"

"No. I am not Benjamin Barker. That man is dead."

"So are you, love," said Nellie.

His face didn't change, but his gaze turned to her. She didn't flinch, delighting in the bitter satisfaction of her words.

"I am sorry, sir," said Akello. "Even if you were called by another name during your life, it is your official name that appears on our records here. Now – " he produced two small brass keys from his pocket and handed one to each of them " – these will unlock the doors to both your private quarters and your shop. Should you choose to keep them unlocked, however, both will be open freely to all who want entrance. There is very little theft or crime of any sort here, so many do choose to leave their doors unlocked most of the time, but for the occasional want of privacy. . . . Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Aside from answer questions that you'll all just refuse to answer anyway?" Nellie grumbled. "No, I think we're set. Thank you kindly."

Akello bowed his head. "There are clocks in both of your rooms. If you want to start adjusting to the Is schedule, I recommend waking up sometime between sunrise and green-yellow, as that is when most choose to start the day, open up their businesses and such."

"Mmm, alright, tha – " The newly delivered information took a minute to register in her brain. "What d'you mean, sometime between sunrise and yellow-green?"

"Green-yellow," he corrected. "And it will become clear soon enough. Farewell to you both." He bowed his head again and wandered away, retreating the direction they had come. She watched him until he had rounded the corner of the corridor, then she turned to her door and slipped the key into the lock.

"_Eleanor Lynnette Lovett."_

The voice was no louder than the soft hiss of a snake in the grass. That didn't stop her from jolting from surprise as the words entered her ears.

Inside she was shaking from renewed ire and apprehension, but she let none of this show on her expression as she turned around. She had to tilt her chin up to look into his face; when had he moved so close to her? And why had he gone so quickly from ignoring her to antagonizing her? Perhaps throwing her into the fire had not been enough; perhaps he had decided to torment her for all eternity: her personal hell.

"Yes?" she said.

His eyes, fixed on the nameplate upon her door, drifted down to her face. "I did not know your middle name was Lynnette."

She put one hand on her hip. "Well, now you do."

"Lynnette," he murmured. "French origin. Its meaning is pretty one." His lips twisted. "Not a very fitting name for you, is it?"

Nellie knew she wasn't pretty. She'd always known this. And she had never lamented over this fact. Like with all things in her life, she didn't like to waste time fiddling and sniveling over what couldn't be helped.

None of this stopped his words from hurting like mad.

She was surprised that he was so familiar with names and their respective origins and meanings. Then again, she supposed she shouldn't be; he'd always been strangely well-read.

Keeping her face stony, she glared up at him. She wasn't going to let him say things like that to her without getting slapped in return. Problem was, she wasn't quite as familiar with the roots of words. "And yours? Tam? Sounds like it's from the Bible or something." A book the two of them had long ago turned a blind eye to. A muscle in his cheek shifted. "What's _it_ s'posed to mean?"

"Honesty – another quality you severely lack."

She cocked her head as she lifted a scornful eyebrow at him. "Sorry, love, but we've both got blood on our hands. Now if you'll excuse me."

His left foot shifted forward as though he might close in further on her – but then he took a step back and bowed. "Of course." His words dripped with utmost loathing even through the sarcasm. "Good-night, Mrs. Lovett."

With a final glare, she whirled around, unlocked her door, and darted inside the room before he could do anything else. Or before _she_ could do anything else.

The room was as plain as a room could be, lined by the gray rock walls that seemed to be the standard for Is interiors. The furnishings were sparse: against the far wall was a bed, big enough for just one person, its mattress covered only by a thin blanket; beside the bed, a nightstand; pushed up to the left wall stood a desk and chair. All were made from wood the color of burnt sand.

Against the right wall was a grandfather clock. At first glance, it looked entirely normal. The exterior was yet again wood, the pendulum gold. Its face was round with two rotating needles, one longer and one shorter. That was where the similarities to clocks she'd seen on Earth ended.

There were no numbers upon this clock. Surrounding the clock's white face was a border of colors, each fading smoothly into the next with no gaps in-between: blue became purple which became red which became orange which became yellow which became green which became blue again, along with every shade in-between them. A color wheel, she realized, as she comprehended then what Akello had been saying about waking up around green-yellow.

_How clever,_ she thought, but was not amused in the slightest. As she continued to stare at the clock, she noticed – as if the bloody thing weren't strange enough already – that its pointers moved in a counterclockwise direction. Had these Is people constructed it like that on purpose, or had their memories of Earth become so foggy that they couldn't remember which direction clock hands turned? Neither thought was cheering.

Despite her study of the clock, she wasn't very fascinated by it. She couldn't have cared less right then, actually. But it was in front of her, and it was easier to be distracted by this clock – or pretend to be, at least – than face all her whirling thoughts again.

On the other hand . . . who was she pretending for, at this point?

She slumped down upon the bed. Her bed. It wasn't all that comfortable. Of course, if she didn't technically need to sleep, then she supposed she wouldn't be using it much anyway. Though if she knew that her Earth body had needed sleep, did that mean she would hallucinate needing sleep here, as Barsid had said? Or could she trick herself into not hallucinating that? Why bother sleeping if she didn't need to? It wasn't as though she'd been sleeping much recently anyway.

And she might as well not sleep her whole death away. Sure, time was limitless to her now, but that didn't mean she should diddle it away. She could do all sorts of things now. She could . . . well, she wasn't sure what she could – or would – do. Something exotic, maybe. Dangerous. Because of course, there was nothing dangerous about concealing the bodies killed by her tenant within her pies . . .

She refocused her attention on the clock, but now that her mind was engaged again, it wasn't as easy to turn it off. Concealing the bodies killed by her tenant – her barber – her lover – who had later killed her. . . .

A gush of air rushed from her lungs – or whatever it was inside of her spirit that hallucinated the need for air – as she fell onto her back.

One thing was clear: this may not have been hell, but for all the pain and confusion and general mayhem laid out before her, it might as well have been.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** You guys. This story hasn't even gotten one hundred hits yet – but I already have ten reviews. O.O I honestly think this is a personal record. You guys rock. For real.

Now . . . let's keep up the trend and continue to review, eh? ;]

Also, special shout out to Scarlett Burns for helping out with the first two chapters of this novel. Real life unfortunately got in the way of her betaing the rest of the fic, but her input was nonetheless invaluable in making these chapters shine.


	3. Searching

_Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable. – L. Frank Baum_

xxx

The halls were endless. The doors were endless. The names were endless. The people were endless.

And he still had not found her.

Rather from his lack of results discouraging him, the longer he searched, the more firm his resolve became.

He wound through corridor after corridor of the rooms where the spirits lived, looking for his wife. Time was meaningless. When waiting for revenge upon the judge, he was always impatient, itching for the moment when he could at last slice into the bastard's skin. Now, he did not care how long it took. Time was immaterial here anyhow. He would look for however long it took. Once Lucy was with him, they would have eternity together, and that was all that mattered.

He didn't know what she would be like when he found her, whether people appeared in the afterlife just as they had been when they died, or if their spirits sometimes reverted back to who they used to be. He didn't know if she would be the Lucy he remembered from his days as Benjamin Barker, or the mad woman she had later crumpled to. He did not care about this either. Lucy was his wife. He loved her just as much as he always had, and when he found her, he could finally show her again the extent of his fervor, be there and care for her as he should have while she still lived . . .

His stomach clenched . . . as he should have . . .

And there _she_ was, the demon, hovering before him, dress far too low and skin far too pasty, with mahogany curls that spiraled and frizzed and tangled, and lawless mud-brown eyes, and callused hands, and long nails, and she was all he could see despite only being in his mind, and he hated everything about her with a passion to rival what he felt for the judge, and yet could picture her a million times more clearly than he could picture his wife, and he hated her for that, and for not telling him that Lucy lived –

He stopped walking and closed his eyes. No. She didn't matter. Only Lucy mattered.

He opened his eyes and resumed his walk.

"Lucy," he whispered to the woman who was, yet again, not with him, "I've come home again . . ."

xxx

What would her reaction be when they met again? What if she reacted poorly? It was hardly a 'what if,' now that he thought about it: he had killed her. However unintentionally, however unknowingly, however much he regretted it, his hand had done the deed. She might hate him. She probably did hate him. But surely she would understand – surely she would know that he had never, ever meant to hurt her – everything he did, he did for her . . .

Her reaction would depend, too, on what her mental health would be here. She might only vaguely recognize him, as she had done last time she'd seen him alive.

"Are you lost, sir?"

Sweeney tightened his jaw. He wished people would stop bothering him. For the most part, the people wandering the Is residence halls kept to themselves and went about their business. But every once in a while, some knucklehead would try and lend a helping hand.

He didn't understand why they kept doing this. It wasn't as though by doing the 'good deed' of helping him they'd be exalted in God's eyes and sent to heaven later – they were already stuck here, and he doubted there was any sort of promotion system at this point.

"No," Sweeney said shortly, and brushed past before the other spirit could say another word.

xxx

His legs ached. His eyelids drooped.

He told himself repeatedly that he was not sore or tired. He could not be sore or tired. He was hallucinating. He was a specter, a ghost, a mere spirit. Spirits didn't have bodies. They didn't have needs. They didn't get sore or tired.

His body didn't seem to know this fact.

He had noticed a clock positioned in a corridor every once in a while, but hadn't bothered to examine it closely. He didn't know nor care how long he had been walking. He'd already traversed through so many corridors that he had completely lost count of them. He must be getting closer.

Sweeney paused his quick, even paces. He gazed at the name written on a nearby door for a moment, then glanced at the others in the area. These names were familiar. He had already come down this hallway before. Did that mean he had circled around? No, that couldn't be. That man – whatever his name was – told them that Is was designed as a grid. He must have taken a wrong way somewhere and gotten turned around.

Unless at some point the grid pattern ended . . . and the halls came back around to meet together again . . .

No. It couldn't be. This was the afterlife. If everyone dead was here, there would have to be more people than this. Besides, there would be no reason for Lucy not to be here. She was dead. However much that truth still pained him, it was just that: truth. She was dead. She was here.

He kept walking.

xxx

Sweeney had not recognized the names on the doors for quite some time now, proving that he _had_ only taken a wrong turn earlier. No matter. Lucy was somewhere here, somewhere near . . .

His feet dragged against the ground as he traveled; his eyes scarcely passed for open. Hallucinations or not, his 'body' was absolutely convinced that it needed to rest. He refused to give in to such weakness. He didn't need to rest to satisfy some mere hallucinations. He'd hardly slept when alive; why start now?

Besides, he'd come this far. To go back to his own room would take longer, at this point, than finding Lucy's, so it only followed that he should keep going . . . his legs were getting heavier . . . he must keep going . . . nearly there, nearly there, nearly with her . . . he fought against the pressure upon his eyelids . . . Lucy was close . . . close . . . so close . . .

xxx

There was something on his shoulder. It was warm. It felt like a hand. His first thought was that it was Lovett, and without opening his eyes, he twitched away from her. The hand, however, remained, shaking and tapping at him with insistent pressure.

He pried apart his eyelids. The world was blurry. He didn't know where he was or what was going on, but there was a figure kneeling in front of him with her hand against his shoulder.

And she had yellow hair.

"Lucy?" he croaked, blinking several times as he tried to orient himself with what was happening.

"No," the female chirped, and as she came into focus he saw it was a girl of perhaps ten years old. "I'm Eloise Michelle Gardner, but call me Eloise. Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. He cast his eyes around the room, and his vision was met with stone walls and wooden doors with names upon them . . . and then he remembered where he was: he was on Is. He was dead. And Lucy was not with him.

"Sir?" the girl asked.

His eyes fastened on her again. He had not known Lucy as a young girl, but this female shared the same beautiful blonde hair and soft white skin. She could have easily been his wife as a child. And since he wasn't sure if people appeared on Is exactly as they had died, or at various stages of their life . . .

"You're not Lucy?" he questioned again, desperate, needing.

The girl shook her head. "No. Is that who you were looking for before you fainted?"

He'd fainted? No wonder he was disoriented. "Yes."

"I'll help you look for Lucy," said Eloise eagerly. "I love searching for things and going on scavenger hunts. I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up but then I caught the plague – Black Death, they called it later. So did everyone in my family. We're all here now, except for Mum. I don't know where she is. But I don't think you should keep looking for Lucy right now. You should go to sleep, otherwise you'll faint again. Also, your feet are incredibly blistered and swollen; you really must consider wearing your shoes before you go out next time."

The girl spoke very fast, jumping thoughts with the ease of an accustomed babbler. If she hadn't lived in the 1300s, he might have thought he'd just met a relative of Mrs. Lovett's. Then again, since she had lived five centuries ago, he supposed her being related to just about anyone, including himself, was possible.

"What's your name? I'll help you get back to your room. But you'll have to stand up because I can't drag you there. And you'll have to hurry because it's almost scarlet and Daddy gets upset when I'm not back in my room by scarlet. I don't know why. It's not as though anything bad ever happens here. Every once in a while there's a fight or something, but it's not as though I could get killed, so I don't understand why he's so nervous. Aren't you going to stand up?"

Sweeney pushed himself to his feet. The room swam and he fell against the wall, only just managing to keep himself off the floor.

"You can do it," Eloise coaxed. "Lean on me. I'll help you."

He would _crush_ the girl if he used her for support. Rather than waste breath telling her this, he placed his hand very carefully on her shoulder, keeping his weight against the wall.

"So, what's your name?" Eloise asked. "I can't very well take you back to your room if I don't know your name."

"Sweeney Todd," he responded, but then remembered that his door on Is declared otherwise. "But my door says 'Benjamin Tam Barker.'"

She looked up at him with wide blue eyes. "Why?"

Things were beginning to steady and clear again, the world readjusting, normalizing. He could trust his limbs to carry his own weight again, and so eased himself away from the wall. "The ones who run this place – they made a mistake and put the wrong name on my door."

"You should tell them that," said Eloise. "The people here are all really nice. I'm sure they'd fix it up for you right quick. Well, come on, Mr. Todd." She put her hand over his own, which still rested against her shoulder, and strolled forward, leading him along. They walked towards the wall opposite them, which was dotted with name-plated doors. Why was she heading towards the door marked _Jacob Robert Paddington_? They should have been continuing to move down the corridor. Maybe she'd misheard his name? But, no, she wasn't going towards the door, she was going towards the wall, and in fact, she was about to slam right into it, taking he along with her –

"Here we are!" Eloise trilled.

Sweeney's mind reeled; he took a step back, staring at the door in front of him. _Benjamin Tam Barker _glittered gold for all the afterlife to see.

"What's wrong?" questioned Eloise, anxiety tingeing her tone. She tugged at his hand. "You did say the name on your door was Benjamin Barker, didn't you, Mr. Todd? If not, that's okay, it's easy enough to go somewhere else – "

Sweeney's voice was low and hollow when he spoke: "How did we get here?"

"What do you mean?"

He pointed at the door (he would not think of it as_ his_ door, it was not his name, no matter what anyone here said).

"Oh, you're new here, aren't you? Sorry, I didn't realize you'd died recently, I thought you'd just gotten disoriented. So you've never traveled around Is by walking through walls? Well, don't worry, it isn't hard. All you have to do is think in your head where you want to go – specifically, though, like the name of the person's room or business or suchlike – walk through a space in the wall where there isn't a door, and voila – " she blew a dramatic kiss at the wall " – you're there! Well, sometimes you end up there. It doesn't always work. It only works when the room wants to be found."

"Rooms are not alive," Sweeney stated, determined to bring this conversation back on a level of normalcy.

"No," she agreed, "but that's how it works, and it is what it is. Now go inside your room, Mr. Todd, and get some sleep, otherwise you'll pass out again and I might not be there next time to help you. It's very nearly scarlet, so I have to go before Daddy gets mad. I'll see you again soon, I hope, and next time I don't want to see any shadows under your eyes, got it?"

She was reminding him more and more of Lovett with each passing moment: the rapid switches between bubbly and demanding, the unending stream of chatter. He knew he should hate her, would have hated her . . . were it not for how much of Lucy stared back at him each time he glanced at her.

"Yes," he mumbled.

Eloise grinned. "Good-bye, Mr. Todd." She waved at him over her shoulder as she vanished into the wall.

Sweeney was left alone, staring at the door bearing the name that was not his. His body ached to lie down, grumbling at him with every passing second to do as the girl had suggested and rest his eyes.

And yet . . .

To sleep now, when he was so close to her, felt like defeat. He could sleep – or hallucinate sleeping – after he'd found her. He couldn't give up now. She was here. She had to be. He just hadn't found her yet. He just had to keep walking. Keep searching. Keep –

He swallowed. Of course. Why had it taken him so long to realize? The little girl had handed him the answer.

He pictured the location in his mind, as vividly as though he had been there before: the polished wood door, the brass lock, the gold letters declaring _Lucinda Roselyn Barker_.

Holding his breath, closing his eyes, he stepped through the wall.

He opened his eyes. He stood before a door.

But it was not her door. It was still his.

He did not let this deter him. He must not have been concentrating enough. He focused even more intently on her name, letting it consume his mind, embrace his soul. _Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker . . ._

But when he stepped through the wall again, he was still right where he had started. And when he tried for a third time, the same thing happened. As with the fourth try. And the fifth. And the sixth. And . . . and . . . and . . .

The girl couldn't have been lying to him. She'd managed to take him here, after all. Was there some secret she had neglected to reveal to him about walking through walls? Some trick? Or maybe this was what she had meant by the rooms sometimes not wanting to be found? What could he do to persuade the room that it _did_ want to be found?

Fighting against his leaden limbs and heavy eyelids, he stepped through the wall again. He had done so much for her in life – escaped from prison, slaughtered the judge and countless other vile men – and now he was to let all of this be for nothing?

_No. _

He was going to find her.

_Lucinda Roselyn Barker_ – a step through the wall – _Lucinda Roselyn Barker_ – through the wall again – _Lucinda Roselyn Barker_ – again – _Lucinda Roselyn Barker_ – again – _Lucy –_

He didn't know what was keeping him upright any longer. He could hardly see, nevermind stand, as he stumbled through the wall over and over, somehow always ending up right where he had begun. He was on the point of collapsing again, he knew that. But he could not stop trying to reach her.

As he continued stumbling through the wall, a voice wormed into his half-delirious mind. A recollection.

"_I do not know for sure what other realms are out there, but I know there must be several, because not everyone who dies ends up here . . . only some."_

He stumbled backwards.

"_Not everyone who dies ends up here . . ."_

His knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, calves smacking the floor, unseeing eyes clamped to the nameplate of _Benjamin Tam Barker_.

Why had he not realized before? Why had he not remembered what he had been told upon his arrival?

Lucy wasn't here. She had never been here. She would be far away from this awful place. She would be in heaven, among the angels, and she would be an angel too. Calm. Resting. At peace. Content. Untroubled by monsters.

Untroubled by those who were like him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Reviews are love.


	4. Easy As Life

_Life must go on; I forget just why. – Edna Saint Vincent Millay_

xxx

"What d'you mean there's no cows here?"

Barsid massaged his temples. "I'm sorry, but it isn't my job to help people adjust to their lives on Is. If you need to talk to someone about getting settled here, there are plenty of people with whom such a job lies – "

"You came to ask _me_ how I was doing – I didn't come to _you_," Nellie reminded him, leaning against the doorframe of her shop.

"To ask how you were doing," Barsid reiterated. "Not to hear a list of complaints."

"Who's complaining?" Nellie asked, throwing up her hands. "I'm not complaining. I'm just wondering how I'm s'posed to cook anything without any cows here to give milk! Are you all out of goats too?"

"There are no animals on Is, only humans."

"You mean to tell me I've spent the past God knows how many days – "

"Circles."

"'S'cuse me?"

"We call them circles here – one rotation of the Is clock, by the way – not days."

Nellie slammed a palm against the doorframe. "Days, circles – do you think I give a damn? My point is that ever since I got here I've been slaving away making a nice little shop for myself – I put together and painted that – " she pointed above their heads at the sign above the door announcing _Mrs.__Lovett__'__s__Emporium_" – and – " she grabbed his sleeve and yanked him inside " – look at all this! It was a right shambles when I first got here, but I tidied it up, swept and dusted and the lot, and even bought a counter and a few chairs from a nice bloke a few doors down that'll I pay for once I've got this place up and running – and now you're telling me you don't have any bloody _milk_? How'm I s'posed to make anything without milk? It's used in just about every recipe that exists! And – sweet Jesus – if you don't have any animals – does that mean you don't have_eggs_ either?"

"Eleanor – "

"That's _Mrs.__Lovett_to you!"

"Mrs. Lovett. Please. Milk does not only come from cows and goats. You can also make milk using rice or soy beans."

"Alright, fine, if you're so clever – what about eggs? What'm I going to do for them?"

Barsid gave her a smile. "You're a baker, aren't you? I'm sure you can come up with a creative alternative."

"But why is it," Nellie persisted, "that things can still grow here – all sorts of crops like wheat and fruits and whatnot – and animals can't be here too? If everything here is dead, does that mean the farmers that are here on Is are growing crops that someone on Earth failed to grow, for whatever reason?"

"That is what we theorize, yes, though we have no way of confirming."

"Then why can't the dead animals come up here for us to eat?"

Barsid spread his hands. "My dear, it is what it is. Now – " he bowed his head " – I really must be going. Please, if you have any further trouble adjusting, I suggest you find one of our helpers – they have several business spots throughout Is, you shouldn't have trouble getting to one. Take care, Mrs. Lovett." He waved at her as he stepped through the wall and vanished.

Nellie groaned and slumped against the counter. It wasn't even jade yet, and she was already fatigued.

She gave herself a shake. Not even _jade_ yet? She'd been dead for less than a week (well, according to her internal Earth clock, at least), and she was already thinking like someone who had been around Is for a very long time. That wasn't a good sign.

She'd been spending most of her time here thus far preparing her shop. Once she had a few more furniture pieces, along with cooking utensils and cooking supplies, she'd be ready to open _Mrs.__Lovett__'__s__Emporium_.

She wondered – not for the first time – what had become of _Mrs.__Lovett__'__s__Meat__Pie__Emporium_. If anything had become of it. Surely someone would have noticed the stench by now, what with three bodies lying around and she not able to dispose of them properly.

Shaking her head, she consulted several lists resting on her counter: one of farmers, one of furniture craftsmen, and one of people selling kitchen utensils. Her goal was to be set to open shop in three days. Circles. Whatever the hell they were called. In any case, sitting around here wasn't going to help accomplish her goal.

Nellie scanned over her list of furniture makers. _Chadley__D.__Burns_. That was a nice name. She'd visit him first. She stepped up to the wall, bracing herself. Despite being on Is for several 'circles,' she had yet to use the walking-through-walls method of transportation personally (with the exception of from her room to her shop), and had instead opted for wandering only the corridor she was in for what she needed. But she had been to all of them now, and there was still much she needed. There was no choice but to confront her silly fear.

Taking a breath, she stepped through the wall . . .

And ended up right outside Chadley's shop.

She smiled. Well. That hadn't been bad at all.

Easy as pie, in fact.

xxx

"Stop being stupid, Nellie. Everything's going to be just fine."

Her own words of encouragement, however, did nothing to budge her hand, which remained stationary upon the sign hanging from inside of her shop door. Facing through the tiny window she'd had installed into the door were the words 'closed'; facing her, 'open.' And she could not will herself to twist the sign the other way for the first time.

"You've got everything you need. Tables, chairs, kitchen supplies, drink, and food. Everything's in place. Now all you need is the customers."

Which, since the 'open' sign had not yet been flipped, she was severely lacking at present.

"C'mon, you've run a shop before. This'll be no different. It'll be better, in fact. Once you get your feet wet and've got some money in your pocket, you'll be able to pay back all them nice folk who've given you the food and furniture and suchlike. And you'll be able to make more food, try all sorts of recipes that your budget on Earth never really allowed . . ."

Her budget _had_ allowed it on Earth, for a time, at least. Although, by then, she was too ensnared in the pie business to branch out much. Concealing human flesh in a pudding or canapé didn't exactly work.

"What're you so bloody worried about?" she asked herself angrily.

It was a question she truly didn't have an answer to. At least, not directly. But every time she made to flip the sign, she would see herself doing the very same thing a million times over on Earth at a million different angles: cheerful and singing; grumpy and half-asleep; so drunk she could hardly stand; furiously slamming the sign; tears gathering in her eyes; laughter bubbling in her throat; expressionless, careless, as though it did not matter how she performed this simple gesture, for there would be another time, and another time, and another time.

Back when she thought she had time.

Nobody ever really expects to die, she supposed. It's something that everyone knows will happen to them, one day. Spare it too much thought, though, dwell on the inevitable for too long, and no one would ever bother getting up the next day, or taking another step, or flipping another sign over.

"It's just a sign, Eleanor," she yelled, and she didn't realize she was crying until she felt a tear run down her cheek. "Just a bloody sign. All you have to do is turn it over – "

And then Toby was there.

Well, he wasn't really. She was imagining him, her mind transporting her back to a time on Earth, back to a time when she had been – if not happy – at least content. She knew it was all in her mind. But that didn't stop her breath from hitching in her throat.

"_Are you going to try and teach me how to roll the pie crust again today, mum?" he asks as he hops down the stairs, hair still rumpled and eyes still bleary from sleep, a smile gracing his features regardless of both these factors._

"I'm so sorry, Toby," she whispered, even though the memory of him could not hear her apology. Far too little. Entirely too late. And no one to blame but herself.

"_Here, let me help with that," he offers, taking the breakfast plates out of her grasp, his hands surprisingly strong and callused as they brush against hers, too strong and callused for someone so young._

A deep, shuddering breath coursed through her.

_He grins up at her. "You work too hard, mum."_

"And I'm going to keep working," she vowed, somehow gaining strength from her weakness, vigor from her loss. Anger at herself, guilt at what she had done to Toby, anguish that her life was over – nothing would come of her feeling this way. Wallowing in sorrow wouldn't heal the pain, and nor would it allow for progression.

She was taking the anger, the guilt, the anguish, and turning it into something productive, spinning gold from wool thread.

She flipped the sign to 'open.'

xxx

Nellie Lovett had grown accustomed to having a booming business. Though initially the concept had been very unfamiliar to her, she'd rapidly learned to adjust back on Earth. For reasons that she did not completely understand (for she had always flat-out refused to eat one of her own pies), human meat was very popular, meaning her shop was rarely ever empty – full to bursting during meal times, in fact.

It wasn't until she was dead, however, that she learned what a 'full to bursting' shop actually looked like.

She'd been skeptical at first, but Barsid had been right: the people of Is loved to eat. She wasn't sure why they adored food so much. Had most of them been undernourished while on Earth? Or maybe they were taking advantage of the fact that you couldn't gain any weight here?

(Then again, maybe you _could_ still gain weight. She hadn't asked. Did souls even have weight? She supposed this would be another question to ask when assaulting the Is workers about the whole 'illusion' concept.)

Whatever the reason, _Mrs.__Lovett__'__s__Emporium_ was always packed with bodies – well, souls – from the moment she opened shop each circle right up until she flipped the 'closed' sign over her door.

She'd started off making what was familiar to her – pies. She hadn't wanted to be in debt again, so had decided to start off with selling only one menu iteming and branching off from there as the money started to trickle in. The money, however, didn't just trickle. It _flooded_.

(Of course, money wasn't called money here. The Is currency went by the name of talent. Why, she had no bloody idea.)

The influx of wealth gave Nellie freedoms she'd only ever dreamed of: expanding her menu ten-fold, buying more (and higher quality) furniture, even indulging in some fancy new kitchen supplies. With the increase of talent, however, came the increase in work. Despite knowing that her muscles and bones couldn't really ache anymore – seeing as she didn't have any – that didn't stop her body from kvetching each morning as she pulled herself out of bed for yet another day/circle of running around like mad.

Each throb from her sore knees, her stiff neck, her creaking back, was a stabbing reminder of Toby. He'd been such a help around the shop. He hadn't quite grasped how to cook yet, but he had done just about every other bloody thing. More than the aid he'd provided, she missed his crooked-teeth smile. His laugh. The way his voice cracked on certain words. How he threw suds at her while washing the dishes. The way his expression would scrunch in mild irritation when she rumpled his hair.

_Don__'__t__think__about__him,__there__'__s__nothing__to__be__done__about__it__now,__he__'__s__better__off__without__you,__don__'__t__think__about__him_. These thoughts became a motif that ran through her bloodstream, pounding with each of her hallucinated heart-beats.

Still, business was booming, and the people of Is (Isians? Isish? Islers? Yet another thing to ask someone about) adored her food.

She avoided Sweeney like the plague, and he, thank God, extended her the same courtesy. On occasion, she thought about him; she frequented the halls of Is often, and never once caught so much as a glimpse of the man. Where was he?

"How're you liking that custard, dear?" Nellie questioned a middle-aged female who had become a regular of hers.

The woman looked up at her with bright eyes. "Why, must you even ask, Mrs. Lovett? It's delicious!"

"Glad you think so too," Nellie said with a wink as she swept over to the next table, for the man sitting there clearly needed his ale topped off. She poured a generous portion into his cup as she questioned, "And how about you? Is the treacle tart all you hoped it'd be?"

She realized only after she'd asked the question that the man did not speak English – he was, judging by his appearance, from China back when he was alive. But he beamed at her and gave a vigorous nod of approval.

That was the beautiful thing about food: it was a universal language.

"D'you need anything else?" Nellie asked, pointing at the kitchen counter to make her point clear.

The man patted his stomach and shook his head.

"Well, you just let me know if you change your mind, love," said Nellie as she made to turn around, "I'll just be – _oh_!"

When she had turned around, she'd come nearly nose-to-nose with Barsid Sajemgi. Gasping, she put a hand over her chest. "Why – when did you get here, Mister? Gave me a fright, y'did!"

"I'm sorry," Barsid offered, "I didn't intend to, I assure you. My, business is booming!" He grinned. "Didn't I tell you our people love to eat?"

"As much as I'd love to idly chit-chat with you, I've really got to – "

"Actually, I'm here on business, Mrs. Lovett." Barsid smoothed down the front of his robes before saying, "It's about Mr. Barker."

"What about him?" Nellie returned, eyes narrowing.

"Well, you see, several dozen circles have gone by since his death, and Mr. Barker still has not done anything to establish himself a life here on Is. He has not opened a shop, participated in any activities – I haven't even seen him in the halls. Now, it's hardly unusual for people who have just arrived here to have trouble adjusting, and shut themselves away initially – but Mr. Barker has spent an inordinate amount of time avoiding everything and everyone here."

_You might find, Barsid dear, that 'Mr. Barker' is inordinate in nearly every way._

"So let the man stay in his room, if that's what he wants," said Nellie, giving a negligent wave of her hand, the ale bottle clutched in her fist sloshing its contents against the glass with the movement.

"Mr. Barker clearly does not know what he wants," said Barsid. "He's confused and depressed. It's normal to feel this way in the afterlife for a certain period of time, but if he never even tries to move on and accept his death – "

"He's not really one for acceptance." Nellie moved for the counter, put the ale bottle on the counter, and replaced it in her hand with a dish rag, which she proceeded to wipe up a spot of flour with. "But if it really bothers you that much that he's not up and around, why don't you go talk to _him_ instead of _me_?"

"We've tried. Multiple times. We've gone over and knocked on his door, talking to him through the crack – it hasn't done any good. That's why I've come to you."

The dish rag, in the middle of clearing away cookie crumbs, froze. "Oh, don't tell me – "

Barsid hurried closer until he stood on the opposite side of the counter as her, leaning forward, his zeal shinning in his face. "I and all those who work in similar departments on Is have been unsuccessful in bringing Mr. Barker out of his room. But since you seem to know him on a more personal level, I thought that, perhaps, you might be more effective in persuading him to – "

"You're bloody serious, aren't you?"

"Quite serious, my dear."

Nellie started to laugh, realized there was nothing funny, then stopped. "I don't know if you noticed, Mister – well, clearly you didn't notice – but Mr. Todd and I – that is to say, Mr. _Barker_ and I – we don't have the greatest of relationships."

And she never wanted to see another hair on his head, nevermind actually go speak to him.

"But the two of you knew each other when you were alive," Barsid persisted. "Perhaps just a familiar voice – "

"Trust me, nothing I say would make any difference."

"I'm not just asking you as a friend, Mrs. Lovett." She repressed a snort; she hadn't been aware that she and Barsid were friends. "I'm asking you as a voice of authority. I would like you to at least try and talk him into joining the Is community."

Nellie put a hand on her hip. "Voice of authority, huh? So if I don't do this, there's going to be trouble for me, is that what you're trying to say?"

"I am not an advocate of violence, my dear, nor is our government. But there are other methods of receiving the desired outcome."

"_Oh_? Other methods, indeed? Pray, enlighten me."

"If you do not comply and try speaking to Barker," said Barsid stoically, "we will take away your shop premises."

Her stomach lurched. Her shop premises. Her ability to bake, to experiment with new foods; her single purpose and reason for still getting out of bed come each 'circle'. Her only pretense that she still had something to exist for. These people knew how to go for the jugular just as well as Sweeney Todd did.

"I don't know if that'd be avoiding violence, love," said Nellie, pursing her lips but keeping her expression impassive, refusing to show how much his threat alarmed her. "I'd never give this place up out of my own choice. You'd have to drag me out kicking and screaming, at the very least . . ."

Barsid did not react to these words. Her mouth twisted into a frown: perhaps she wasn't as good as masking her true reaction to his threat as she thought she was, how much the thought of losing the only thing she still cared about scared her.

She had wanted to spend the rest of her afterlife avoiding Sweeney at all possible costs. True, it wasn't as though he would open the door to his room for her, so she probably wouldn't have to actually see him – but just the idea of having to speak to him, even through a door, was repulsive.

Then again, if she got over dealing with him now, it would make for a much easier time here. They did live right across the corridor from each other, after all. She couldn't expect to avoid him _completely_ for the rest of . . . well, forever.

"Fine, fine," said Nellie, flapping her hands at Barsid in a shooing gesture, "I'll give it a shot."

Barsid caught her flying fingers in his own and looked at her closely. "Do you promise that you will put your full effort into this? That you will not just brush it off after a feeble attempt?"

She was staggered by his intensity, his sudden solemnity. "'S'cuse me for being a bit nosy, but – why does this matter to you so much? What's it to you if one spirit spends all his time shut away in his room?"

Barsid was quiet for a moment. He examined their entwined hands, but not as though he was seeing them. "There are many people who spend their entire lives 'shut away in their rooms,' Mrs. Lovett – sometimes literally, sometimes not."

She bit her lip.

"Now, I told you when you first arrived here that Is isn't paradise, and that's true. But look around you. There's hardly any conflict. Our police force rarely needs to be called upon. People of all different races and backgrounds mingle together as though it's the most natural thing in the world – and here, it is. They co-exist. They feel no need to commit crimes, have fights, nothing. And they're happy. They do not all speak the same languages, but they're happy, doing everything they've always loved, everything they never could – everything they never allowed themselves, for whatever reason. Mr. Barker deserves to be among them."

She swallowed. His words were everything she had lived by her whole life, everything that she had fruitlessly tried to convince Sweeney Todd of. It was all she believed in, though framed in the context of death rather than life . . . and in a much more succinct form than she usually managed to achieve in her babble. Yet for some reason, what he said stirred an unsettling emotion within her. Discomfort. Anxiety. Worry. She couldn't identify exactly what she felt, which made it all the more disquieting.

Perhaps sensing her unease, Barsid dropped her fingers as the usual grin stole over his features. "I shall see you later, I'm sure. And some circle, when I'm not so busy, I'll definitely have to come around for a pastry or two."

"Please do," said Nellie. "I'm never opposed to more customers."

He flashed his perfectly white teeth at her again, then strolled easily through the wall and out of sight, leaving her to curse him in silence as she bustled away to top off the ale of another customer.

xxx

There was nothing to live for.

No Lucy to seek vengeance for. No Johanna to welcome back to his home. No Turpin to kill.

There was nothing to do. Nothing to spend his time on. Nothing to occupy his mind with. Nothing, nothing, absolutely fucking nothing to live for.

But he was not alive anymore anyway. So it shouldn't really matter.

Yet he was still around. He could still move, speak, think – but there was nothing to move for, no one to speak to, nothing to think about.

If Sweeney Todd had sometimes wondered if he had gone mad before, there was no more wondering about it now: he had, most assuredly, gone mad.

Time – or whatever it was here – passed by without any sort of direction or pattern. He'd turned the clock in his room over, its face against the floor. Watching the needles tick by at their impossibly slow rate only made each hour that much more excruciating. No, it was easier to let time go by without any method of tracking how fast or far it had gone. This way, he could merely sit and stare, his mind wheeling in loops of blank nothings, of white spaces and empty corners and dead ends.

Every now and then, when the urges became too great for him to bear, he would be forced to get to his feet and use a bathroom, or search for some food. Much to his surprise, Is had a form of currency, but since he did not have a job, he had no money of his own. So he had returned to Eloise Gardner (whom he'd dare say had been far more delighted than any person, alive or dead, had ever been to see him) for help.

She'd gaily shown him another oddity of the hereafter: the farming district. Within a room far larger than any he'd yet seen on Is, a room both taller and wider than one could discern with a naked eye, foods from all over the world sprouted, vegetated, and bloomed. One of the farmers had taken pity on him, so now, every time he showed up, she would always procure a stray piece of corn, or an apple that no one would miss.

Beyond that, Sweeney did nothing. _Could_ do nothing except to sit and stare, trapped in the dusty, desolate corners of his mind. But every now and then, from the fog, would appear the petite form of a woman, her yellow hair catching the wind, her eyes stabbing his skin like a thousand razors . . .

Sweeney would have given anything to have his spirit dissolve into nothing. He did not want to exist any longer, not on Earth and not on Is. Not if she was not in either.

He missed her. God, did he miss her. He had missed her for sixteen years, missed her so consistently and achingly and so damn _much_ that he had thought it could not be any worse.

He had been wrong.

He still searched for her. Each time he left his room for the lavatory or food, he would first close his eyes and step through the wall, _Lucinda__Roselyn__Barker_ pounding a steady metronome in his mind. He knew she wasn't here, but he could not cease looking. She might show up, after all; that man had mentioned that souls did occasionally come and go from Is. Or she might not simply be ready to be found – but when she was ready, he would be there.

Thinking of her was painful, so when his thoughts did wander in that direction, he would usually try to steer them back to the vacant voids of his mind. Then he would feel guilty for not wanting to think of her, for wanting to spare himself pain. How could he be so selfish? He _should_ think of her, should think of her with each and every thought. He deserved to dwell in misery; after all, it was his fault –

No. It was _her_ fault. The she-devil's fault. He had not known, could not have known –

_Couldn't have known? You couldn't have recognized your own wife?_

And thus continued the spirals, the dead-ends, the endless cycles of his misery-drunk mind.

What had ever happened to the afterlife being a place for the soul to _rest_?

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are love.


	5. Reunion

_We have no reliable guarantee that the afterlife will be any less exasperating than this one, have we?__ – Noel Coward_

xxx

Nellie Lovett did not want to go pay Sweeney a visit and try to bring him out of his room, as Barsid had requested. She did not want to talk, interact, or lay eyes upon that man ever again.

But she was going to. Barsid had asked her to. It wasn't that she cared about making Barsid happy by doing as he asked. Hardly. Nellie was just tired of lying to people, and she had vowed to kick the habit once and for all.

Not to mention that, if she didn't at least make an effort, she'd lose entitlement to her shop premises, to the only thing in the world she still cared about and gave her life (half-life, endless strip of time, pathetic existence) a semblance of purpose. She couldn't allow that to happen.

So it was that the next day _(circle, Nellie, circle – you've got to start adjusting)_, she found herself standing outside the door marked_ Benjamin Tam Barker_. One arm was on her hip as she glared at the golden letters; the other carried a pie. As her mother had been fond of proclaiming, the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Not that this had ever worked with Sweeney while he was alive; his meals more often moldered away on his bureau rather than finding their way down his throat.

And nor did she want to be in his heart. Good God, no.

But she'd told Barsid she would do everything in her power to persuade Sweeney Todd to come out of his room, exhaust all possibilities, and she intended to do just that.

Raising a fist, Nellie knocked on the door of her lover _(former lover, Eleanor –_ former_ lover – not even a lunatic would share a bed with their murderer)_, and then her upper lip curled. She'd never bothered knocking when they'd been alive; Sweeney never opened the door or even called out a simple 'come in' anyhow. Barging into his room here, however, didn't seem like a good way to open a discussion; he didn't need another reason to hate her.

She waited a few moments, but no one came to the door. She knocked again, louder.

Still no response from the other side.

Nellie knocked several more time with similar non-results before taking a deep breath and calling through the door. "Mr. Todd? It's Nellie Lovett." As if she really needed to identify herself; as if he couldn't recognize her voice. "Open up the door. I'm s'posed to talk to you." Well, no point beating around the bush.

Nothing.

Nellie expelled a frustrated sigh. Desperate, she reached out for the door knob to try and open the door herself. Knowing Sweeney, he'd probably locked the door long ago, but –

The door swung open without hindrance.

And Sweeney Todd was revealed.

Nellie wasn't sure what sort of reaction she'd been expecting from him. Last time they had seen each other, he had threatened, yelled, taunted, snarled, and strangled her (tried to, at least, before realizing she'd already died). She'd expected something of the same vein from him today, at least initially.

She might as well have been a stranger for all the reaction he gave her. He sat upon his bed, a statue of pale stone, staring at his hands, and did not so much as twitch when she opened the door. There was no emotion whatsoever in his gaze as he studied his extremities, merely his usual dead stare, accompanied by something unfamiliar – resignation? To what?

And why wasn't his door locked? Had he forgotten? Did he just not care?

Steeling herself for who-the-hell-knew-what, Nellie's feet shuffled forward.

"Barsid sent me," she told him. She didn't want him under the delusion that she'd come to try and mend their broken bridges or plead for forgiveness. She was long over those ideas. "He wants me to talk to you."

She might as well have been talking to empty air: Sweeney did not acknowledge her.

"He wants you to stop being such a hermit," said Nellie with blunt indifference. "Join the community. Set up a business or something. Interact with people. Take proper care of yourself. Get over whatever's bothering you and move on."

For the first time, it occurred to her that she had no idea how Sweeney had died. She was tempted to ask, but figured this wasn't the best time.

He remained silent.

"You even listening to me?" she demanded.

If he was, he didn't say so.

Nellie rapped her fingers against the pie plate in her hand. "Well, look, I know you don't like having me in here, but there's a million other places I'd rather be right now too. I'd take_ any_ other place, in fact. But I told Barsid I'd try my hardest to knock some sense into you, and quite frankly I don't plan on leaving until you decide to at least make an effort to listen to the poor man. He may be irritating, but he's got a good heart. And it's not as though you've got anything to do in here, so you might as well drag your sorry pale self – Jesus, d'you know, you're paler than the moon – and considering how pale you usually are, that's saying something. Have you been eating at all? Even souls need to eat, as I've learned. You wouldn't believe how many people are swamping into my shop every – "

She stopped herself. This wasn't working. Sweeney was still dead as a corpse (a thought that she might have found amusing were she not so agitated).

"Here, this is for you," she said, holding the pie under his bowed head so he would be forced to see it. "Should do you some good."

For the first time since her entering his room, Sweeney moved, raising his head to catch her eyes. He did not say anything, but the look upon his face of wary revulsion – tinged with a twist of his lips clearly meant to express how crazy he thought her – said it all plainly.

"The filling is strawberries," Nellie informed him, and suddenly had to fight two separate, yet equally strong, urges: the urge to smile and the urge to smash the pie in his stupid face.

xxx

Sweeney was past emotion. Past feeling. Past caring.

So when Mrs. Lovett showed up in his room, he gave no reaction. Which surprised him, on some level. He hadn't planned on seeing her again, but should he be forced to confront her, further torment was clearly the only route to go.

But now . . . well, what difference would it make at this point? What would come of threatening her? They would be hollow threats; he couldn't bring any harm to her here. He would always hate her, loathe every hair on her head with the same passion he felt towards Turpin – perhaps more – but there was no point in acting upon these feelings. They were both dead.

"Here, this is for you," she said, and he suddenly found himself face-to-face with a pie, its crust lightly browned, its top wafting waves of warmth that scratched at his nose. "Should do you some good."

Jolted, forgetting his inner turmoil, Sweeney raised his eyes to hers. The woman was bloody mad. What on earth would make her think that he would eat one of her pies? He never ate her pies. Neither did she, for that matter. Knowing what was inside of them was enough to turn anyone's appetite. How had she even gotten any human meat here? Could souls be sliced and diced the same as any normal body? And how –

"The filling is strawberries," said Mrs. Lovett drolly.

_Oh._

"You going to take it, or do I have to force feed it to you?"

He knew her well enough to know this was not an empty threat; he reached up and took the pie from her.

"Well, a thank you would've been nice, but I s'pose that'll have to do. It's progress, at least. Oh, you'll be needing a fork too, those strawberries gush juice all over – makes a right mess when you try and use your hands – here – "

Pie plate balanced on his lap, fork in hand, Sweeney could only stare at the baked good. How could she act as though everything was normal? Had the hard cot under his bottom not been a steady reminder, he could have almost forgotten that he was not still alive, residing on Fleet Street, Lovett chattering in his ear about this and that and everything and nothing, while he remained idle, hearing the rise and fall of her voice but not actually listening to the words she spoke. And yet they were not alive, and they were not on Fleet Street, and he still was not really listening to what she was saying – but how could she continue to act as though it was just another normal day in their lives? Perhaps it was her method of dealing with the abnormal.

Or perhaps she believed that since Lucy was truly out of the picture now, she and he could have a future . . .

The thought was enough to send a shot of fury through his veins. Thank God. Hecould still feel something.

"I haven't forgiven you."

His words were quiet, spoken in a deceptive caress rather than with pounding hate, though they fooled no one in the room. Lovett stopped abruptly in the middle of her prattle. There was silence. He glanced up from his untouched pie. Her face was blank, eyes cold.

"I know that, Mr. Todd," she replied. "We're on equal footing on that matter, seeing as I haven't forgiven you either."

In a sudden rush, his indifference was gone, wiped clean by the hot fury steeping in his bloodstream. "You deserved what you got."

"Yeah, so I've heard," she snarled, cheeks crimsoning; his anger was expanding, filling the room and swallowing her too. "But just what d'you want me to do about it, Todd? Kiss your feet and beg for forgiveness? Strangle myself this time?"

He vaulted from the cot to his feet. The plate slipped from his legs and hit the floor; the untouched strawberry pie rolled underneath his desk chair, red juices oozing from the battered surface and dripping all over his floor. The fork remained in his hand, forgotten about until he seized Mrs. Lovett's shoulders and realized something metal was between his palm and her robes.

"A fork," she observed, sneering, her face scorched the same dark mahogany as her hair. "Far more menacing than a razor, I'll give you that, love."

"This might not be hell, pet," he spat, gripping her flesh, blood throbbing in his head and forming a red haze in front of his eyes, "but that doesn't mean I can't make it one for you – pain still exists, even if death doesn't – "

He stopped: she was laughing.

"Oh, that's right, love," said Lovett, chortling, grinning up at him through bared teeth. "Turn your profession from murderer to torturer." She shook her head, still chuckling quietly. "That makes no sense. You killed while alive 'cause you could rationalize it: you were serving justice, each bloke is practice for when the judge comes, and it's all a tribute to Lucy's pristine memory. . . . But you can't rationalize this. Because now it's not justice, now the judge isn't coming, now you know Lucy doesn't give a shit what you do in 'her' name – "

The red thickened. His right hand seized her curls and jerked her head back, the fork clattering from his fingers to the floor. Lovett yelped, tears welling in her eyes – but the look of temerity, of fearless anger, remained: her eyes sparkling; her lips grinning; her neck long and pale and stretched out, exposed to him just as so many before her had been, calm and unafraid.

Except those before her had known no reason to be afraid. Those before her had not known what awaited them, the way his hand molded an innocuous household object into an agent of violence.

But she knew. She knew – and she laughed.

It was not pity or remorse that caused his hands to drop from her body, as she seemed to think from the way triumph blazed through her eyes. It was resignation:

He could no longer hurt her.

Her face was still flushed, but her manner as she fussed with her hair was calm, her words as smooth as though there had been no interruption:

"See? You never enjoyed being cruel for cruelty's sake. Don't glare at me like that – I know it's true, I saw each and every one of your corpses, love. Save Turpin, they all got just one nice cut along the neck – a fairly quick death. You like watching the blood spill, sure – but you don't like torturing any human longer than what's necessary to achieve the end."

His fingernails chomped into the fleshy bits of his palm; he forced his breath to remain steady.

Her lips quirked. "'Sides – now you know that death was never the end. It was just the start of even more suffering – the suffering you once thought death would put an end to."

"Get out of here, Mrs. Lovett," said Sweeney softly, unable to look at her any longer. The haze of red had faded, but the throbbing anger had not – it was only rising higher – increasing the pounding in his mind, increasing the need to see someone in pain. And since he could not hurt her, he would next turn to hurting himself. She had to leave before it came to that.

From his peripheral vision, he watched her massage her scalp with quick, irritable movements. "Don't you remember why I came in here in the first place? I'm trying to get you out of your room and I'm not leaving 'til you come with me – "

"Why do you care?" he spat through clenched teeth.

"I don't care!" she screamed, jolting his eyes up to hers. "I don't care what the hell you do with the rest of your eternity – I don't care if you sit in here for all eternity or drink yourself into a permanent stupor or try to kill yourself for a second time with that bloody fork."

Lunging towards the ground, she scooped up the plate and fork with shaking hands. She picked up the dirtied and broken pie too, for whatever reason, but didn't bother wiping up the spilled strawberry juices from the floor, leaving them to lay like luminous blood streaks across his floor.

"But whatever you do," said Lovett, striding towards his door, "you'd better bloody do it outside of this room – 'cause if you don't, I lose my shop – and if you think I'm going to allow you to take away the last thing that still means anything to mean, then love, you really don't know me at all."

She slammed the door.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Uhmmm . . . Happy Christmas? xD The chapter itself might not be a cause for happiness, but I hope the fact that I finally updated is!

Reviews are love.


	6. A Promise

_Men tire themselves in pursuit of rest. – Laurence Sterne_

xxx

"Mr. Barker? Mr. Barker? I am a member of the Is authorities. Please, open the door."

Sweeney moved his hand aimlessly across his cot, tangling his fingers in the blanket. He never had opened the door before when these Is people stopped by to try and coax him from his room. Why would this time be any different?

He heard the door open. He felt surprised that they were actually going to enter his room, as they never had before: just a few knocks, some preachy words, maybe a few sighs, and then they left – always firmly remaining behind his closed door the entire time. He felt surprised . . . but not bothered. Save for Lovett's brief appearance and the bullet of anger accompanying it (when had that been, anyhow? Days ago? Weeks?), he didn't feel much at all anymore, just an endless dull ache over his whole body, like a flu long outstaying its welcome within his body.

"Good morning," said his uninvited guest. It was a woman's voice, which was slightly shocking: officers or politicians or whatever these people were meant to be were not usually female, at least not in London.

His eyes were still upon his hands as he heard her shut the door and walk towards him. "It's nice to meet you," she said cordially. "I am Reyna Lovett."

His head jerked up as pure emotion spasmed through him in God only knew how long _(not likely He knows either, truth be told)_. But the matching name must have just been coincidence, he decided, looking at the woman poised before his bed with her arm outstretched and her mouth smiling. The sharp as an arrow nose, the bronzed skin, and the rosebud mouth in front of him could have no relation to the upturned nose, the deathly pallor, and the thin dry lips in the room across the hall. Besides, the name Reyna was of Spanish origin, and Eleanor Lovett had not a drop of Spanish blood in her veins.

He didn't accept her offered hand; he didn't want to allow her to delude herself that she was welcome in here. But she only continued smiling as she seated herself across from him in his desk chair, crossing her ankles and leaning back in the seat with the easy confidence of an owner.

"I apologize for letting myself in so rudely, Mr. Barker," said Reyna; he twitched each time she pronounced that name that was not his, but had given up protesting to its use, "but you have not left any other option. We want to speak to you candidly, and it's quite hard to do that through a closed door."

She paused, as though waiting for a response. When none came, she continued, "As you have heard, we – meaning we spirits of Is – want you to participate in the afterlife. Join our world. Find a job, or start one of your own. Meet people; we have no shortage of them. I know this is a difficult transition. We all know. We all were you, once, newly deceased souls. But your death will always feel new if you never accept it."

He had accepted his death long ago. That wasn't the problem. What he could not accept was how he still could not find Lucy, no matter how hard he searched – how he could never find a moment's rest, not even curled upon his bed in feigned sleep – how painfully similar death was to life.

She leaned forward, trying to capture his eyes with her own. She may not have been related to Mrs. Lovett, but she certainly looked like her in this moment: her posture avid, her face blazing with earnest expectations and life.

His stomach twisted and he snapped his gaze to his hands, crushing the fabric of his blanket between his fingers.

"We aren't still alive anymore, Mr. Barker," said Reyna, "and no one here will ever try to tell you differently. But what matters – our souls – these still exist. These still give us the ability to think, to walk, to touch, to see, to feel – "

"I don't want to feel," came his protest, the words fleeing unbidden from his lips before they had even formed in his mind.

Reyna did not respond. His eyes darted towards her, then quickly away again: she was studying him closely, too closely.

"Mr. Barker," she said, "are you aware that five months have gone by since your death?"

He did not reply; he could not: he did not trust his vocal chords.

"Time passes differently on Is than Earth, of course. Five months upon Earth does not mean that over one hundred and fifty circles have gone by; it just means that's how many Earth days have passed. Residing in solitude immediately after one's death is normal – but it usually does not last for more than a period of two Earth weeks, or two Earth months, sometimes. Never five."

Her words ceased again, allowing Sweeney to respond. He said nothing.

Reyna did not pause for only a moment, as she had before. She stayed silent far longer this time, for what must have been at least three minutes, before speaking again.

"There is one way to feel no longer," she murmured.

His eyes flung up from his hands and met hers. Did she mean . . .?

"To kill a spirit," she said. "To terminate one's existence."

He was breathing hard, his hands clenched in his blanket, the elixir of hope firing through his limbs and tingling throughout every particle of his being – that was all he wanted – if Lucy could not be found, if he could not unshackle his pain and guilt – he had longed to cease existing, but had not known . . .

"How?" he asked.

"They are called the fires."

Sweeney swallowed but spoke without hesitation: "Take me there."

"No."

His breathing normalized, but the drug of hope numbed his body and turned everything cold, stiff. _No . . .?_

"I had not finished speaking," said Reyna. "I came here today not to simply offer you a pathway out, but to propose a deal." She glanced him over, sadly: his body tense with fervor, his mouth tight with suppressed pain. "I had not wanted it to come to this. But it became clear unfortunately quickly that this was my only option."

Sweeney dug his fingers deeper into the mattress. Couldn't the woman just make her point?

"I will take you to the fires," said Reyna, "if, and only if, you _exist _for the next two Earth years. If you finally join the Is community as we want you to – as you were meant to. Work, eat, talk, socialize, shop, entertain, forget. Then, at the end of these two Earth years – if you still want to end your existence – I will bring you to the fires."

"There's no calendar in here," said Sweeney, his eyes narrowing.

She gave him a humorless smile. "You're quite observant, Mr. Barker. Yes, only the government keeps an Earth calendar. Most souls become far too depressed if given calendars, making a pastime of tallying off the days since their death. The point of the afterlife is to _exist_, not to mark off a senseless series of days and years that no longer have any bearing upon what you can or cannot do with your time."

"How will I be able to hold you to your end of the bargain if I have no calendar?" he asked suspiciously.

Reyna's eyebrows raised. "You do not trust me?"

He couldn't help it: he chuckled. Trust was a fool emotion that only led to pain. Trust deserved to exist no more than the soul of Sweeney Todd did.

"I always keep my word, Mr. Barker," said Reyna in a low voice. "But if you do not believe me, you may periodically come to my office, and I will show you my calendar. I will mark today distinctly, and you are allowed to visit and count how many days have been crossed off since today any time that you wish. Likewise, then, I am allowed to visit _you_ any time that I wish and ensure that you are fulfilling your part of our deal. Now – do we have a promise?"

Promises were as foolish as trust, particularly this promise. But he knew he could not take much more of being prisoner in his own mind . . . and if this was the only way to end his captivity, then so be it.

"Yes," said Sweeney.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **My apologies for the shortness of this chapter. The next one shall be far longer, I pinky swear.


	7. They Wander, Tormented

_And people, even face to face and clasped in each other's arms, disappear from each other. – Russell Hoban_

xxx

"So – you're out of your room."

Sweeney wound his finger around the rim of his empty tumbler. "Yes."

"How'd they manage that?" asked Lovett; without looking at her, he knew her eyes were wide and her jaw slack in surprise.

He stayed mute. He certainly wasn't going to tell _her_ about the deal he had made with Officer Reyna Lovett, the deal to end his existence in two years time. Eleanor Lovett loved to preach on what it truly meant to live. He could already picture her reaction if he told her, could already see her cheeks reddening and her mouth thinning as she snapped, _'For God's sake, Mr. T – you're really just going to end it all? Continuing to take the coward's route rather than ever just trying to embrace reality? Embrace _existing_? At some point, my love, you've got to move on – '_

"Well, alright, don't tell me," said Lovett, cutting into her imagined duplicate's chatter. "I guess even you would get bored of twiddling your thumbs after a while. Though why you've now chosen to spend all your time in my shop – I can't fathom that one at all."

He raised his eyebrows but kept his gaze downturned. Didn't she? He may have wanted to be anywhere else at this moment – but he couldn't. Eleanor Lovett, damn her, still had something that not even his farmer friend, who always seemed to be able to give him a spare potato or ear of corn, hadn't been willing to give to him:

"I need more gin," he told the tabletop.

Lovett didn't answer. He glanced up at her for the first time since she'd come over to speak with him during a brief lull in her flow of customers. Her cheeks were flushed red, mouth so thin her lips nearly disappeared. "This is your fifth refill since the clock struck indigo, Mr. T."

"Fourth, actually."

"My point's the same!" she snapped, slapping his table; his cup rattled. "All you do is sit in _my_ shop at_ my_ table and drink _my_ gin and sulk around – "

"I'm out of my room," said Sweeney demurely. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"What _Barsid_ wanted," Lovett corrected, and punctuated this thought with another smack to the table. "And no, this isn't what he wanted. He wanted you to experience things – join the community – get a bloody job – not mope around all depressed, feeling sorry for yourself and your Lu – "

He bared his teeth in a snarl. "Don't yell at me, woman. And don't you _dare _speak to me of her."

The color drained from her face, but the fury only deepened. She tightened her fingers around the gin bottle. "I'm not refilling your glass," she hissed in a slow, dangerous tone that she had never used on him before, "or bringing you any more food, until you find a way to pay for all of it."

He made a snatch for the gin bottle; she held it out of his reach, stuck her nose in the air, and marched away to tend to her other customers. Seething, Sweeney sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers against his empty glass. Already he was missing the confines of his room; the empty fog of his mind was nearly unbearable, but at least it was safe, predictable, where he could dwell in his unhappiness without being interrupted . . . but out here . . .

"I've got a solution."

Lovett stood in front of him again, hands set on her hips. The shop was empty. A glance at the clock told him it was a quarter past purple; though he'd failed to notice, _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_ had shut fifteen points ago.

"I'm not very happy with the idea," she continued, "but it's the best one I've got, and I think in the end the negatives – however hefty – are outweighed by the positives."

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. Could the woman never just make her point?

Mrs. Lovett drew in a long breath. "I think you should work for me."

His eyes leapt to hers.

She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest as she sunk into a nearby chair. "Don't look at me like that. Listen, I don't want nothing to do with you neither. But you obviously have no plans to go find another job – and you also obviously have no plans to search elsewhere for your food and gin. And I'm in need of some help around here anyway, can't do all this by myself for much longer without dropping right to the ground . . . never fully appreciated how much help T – " she flinched as though he'd hit her, though he had not moved " – how much work running a successful eatery is. You working here will solve all those problems: you'll have a steady job, you'll be able to pay me back for your meals and whatnot, and I'll have the assistance I've been needing anyway."

"I could find work elsewhere," said Sweeney, once he remembered how to move his mouth.

"But you won't," said Lovett, and they both knew this was true. "You hate people too much to stomach working with another person, and one of you would eventually tear the other to shreds – and I don't have many doubts about who'd be doing the tearing."

Sweeney could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he said, "And you don't foresee the same problem with us?"

Lovett shrugged her shoulders. "I know how to handle you."

She made it sound as though he were a domesticated dog that needed to learn to not bite houseguests. As though she had the upper hand in their relationship. He smirked; she'd never had the upper hand. Not now, and not ever.

She rapped her fingers on the table. "Well? You gonna accept or not?"

Sweeney shot her a look of incredulity. It didn't seem as though he really had a choice. His days of cadging gin off Mrs. Lovett were apparently over. And Reyna would likely not think he was upholding his end of their bargain if he occupied himself solely with drinking all the time, never interacting with others or even finding himself a job . . .

Lovett rose to her feet and moved towards the kitchen area to clean up. "You start tomorrow. Be here by maize. The hour – well, chords, as they're apparently called here – not the food. We'll have breakfast, then I'll show you what you need to know before the morning rush comes."

xxx

"Mr. Todd, d'you know how to read a clock?"

His feet froze in mid-step as he entered her shop through the wall. "Excuse me?"

"Y'heard me," cried out Lovett, far louder than necessary as she scurried towards him, simultaneously waving new customers inside as she refilled the ale glasses of others; several spirits turned their heads towards the commotion, eyebrows raised. "D'you know how to bloody read a clock or not?"

"Of course I can read a clock, woman."

"Then why is it" – she slammed a tumbler against one of the tables; it was a miracle that it did not shatter – "that you always show up late to my shop? We open at _yellow_, Todd, not a quarter to maize."

He moved towards the kitchen area to begin reheating pastries. "So dock my pay by an hour."

Working for Mrs. Lovett was just as awful as he had predicted it would be. Worse, in fact. Could anything less have been expected for two people who were tenant and landlady, barber and baker, killer and accomplice, murderer and murdered?

For one, Sweeney had no idea how to cook or clean. Someone else had always been around to do those tasks for them: his mother, then Lucy, then the prison guards (if you could call the little food they gave him cooked or the facilities he lived in clean), then Lovett. A few times when Lucy was ill, he'd made some soup, or helped out with chores . . . but beyond that, he was clueless when it came to such tasks. It was women's work, anyway, so he'd never been concerned with his lack of expertise in this field.

Until now.

"What the ruddy hell is this supposed to be?" Lovett would shout at him as she held up what was once a pastry, blackened and shriveled beyond all recognition; or, "Why is this table dirtier now than it was before you wiped it down?" as she waved her hands at said table; or, _"Are you barking mad?"_ as he did any number of things wrong. He would snarl in return, naturally, and it all spiraled downhill from there.

"Dock your pay? Dock your pay?" Lovett was parroting now, hot on his heels as he strode towards the kitchen. He fisted his hands inside his pockets. "You really think that's the issue here? Me losing a little bit of money – talent, I mean – no, Todd, that's not the problem. The problem is _you_ being _late_ to your job – a job that takes punctuality and reliability very seriously and has never once opened late – "

"You seem to be doing fine without me." He snatched a tray of danishes, threw open the oven door, and put the pastries inside.

"Stop changing the subject." She was unaccountably and unacceptably angry for so early in the morning, he thought, thrusting his hands back into his pockets and clutching his fingers together. "If you need to go to bed earlier so's you can be up earlier, then just do it, 'cause I'm not going to take this much longer – where the hell d'you think you're going?"

He stopped walking and looked at her, mouth so taut he could barely form the words: "To give that lady another slice of torte."

"You're just going to walk away from the oven while you've got pastries sitting in there?" He made to side-step her, but she blocked him, glaring up into his face. "So's you can burn 'em like you did yesterday? How about we just focus on getting you to accomplish one measly little thing at a time rather than attempting a whole bunch all at – "

"Waking up earlier isn't the problem," he snapped, cursing her for not moving out of his path, cursing himself because he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his hands fisted in his pockets instead of around her neck.

"'S'cuse me?"

"It's not why I'm late," said Sweeney.

"Pray, tell," she sneered, "why _are _you late?"

"Lucy."

Her eyes bulged, theatrically wide, thrown off-guard. "She's – she's on Is?"

"Possibly."

Lovett's eyes began to narrow. "Possibly – but – but if she was, you sure as hell wouldn't be here – you'd be groveling outside her door, insisting that loving one's murderer isn't a crime, and that you deserve her forgiveness – "

His hands shook with their repressed rage; her eyes darted briefly from his to his pockets, clearly noticing their trembling, but only a smirk passed across her face at the sight. His hands shook harder.

"I haven't found her yet," he growled. "I'm still searching."

Her left eyebrow arched, matching the quirk of her smirking lips. "'S'not a very lengthy process, love, searching for another soul on Is. You step through the wall thinking their name – and then you either find 'em or you don't."

"Sometimes rooms don't want to be found."

Lovett erupted into peals of laughter. "Oh – that's good – that's really good . . . well, you just keep telling yourself that it's the room that doesn't want to be found, love, and not its occupant – I'm sure lying to yourself about that is _real _effective, must be real nice to cling to that dream reality – "

His hands spasmed and flew from his pockets and only just managed to catch the oven door rather than her throat, jerking it open with a _bang_ before pulling out the tray of danishes. He grabbed an ale bottle and began to stalk towards the tables filled with customers, but then paused, standing just off to Lovett's right side. He twisted his neck to the side and leaned towards her, his lips close to her ear. She froze, skin paling, breath shallowing. It was his turn to smirk in disgusted victory.

"At least I still have something to cling to, Mrs. Lovett. Everything _you_ once clung to – the boy, the illusion of your family, the seaside dreams . . . you destroyed it all."

He stalked away to see if anyone wanted a danish, still smirking, not even caring when she threw a hissed _"bastard" _at his retreating back.

xxx

"Mr. Todd!" she barked at him from across the room.

Sweeney's neck twisted towards her. Her heart stopped in her chest.

_You fool, Lovett. You're dead. You don't have a heart anymore. Something you don't have can't very well stop on you._

"That gentleman over there is waiting for another scone," she informed him when her pulse returned to normal, pointing to said man, who looked mildly flustered at having attention drawn so openly to him.

Without so much as a nod, Sweeney moved towards the man to deliver his food.

Nellie turned her back on him and her customers to watch the pastries she had warming up in the oven. _You fool, you idiot, you pathetic thing, _she silently abused herself.

She had to stop. She had to stop responding to him like this. She knew she had to stop. This was not the first time she had answered physically to him since they had started interacting with each other on a daily (circularly?) basis. Her mind may have loathed him, but her body was still on a different page.

_It's just lust. Get yourself a man if you really need one that badly._

But she'd gone more than fifteen years – the time between her husband dying, and Sweeney Todd (however changed) coming home again – without making love to anyone. And her body never responded to other men on Is as it did to that bastard.

_Old habits die hard,_ taunted a nasty little voice in the back of her head.

_Those are the hands that threw you into the fire,_ she would tell herself again and again, _those are the lips that smiled at your impending demise, those are the eyes that watched you as you burned. . . . _These thoughts would increase her anger at him and herself, but did nothing to end her weakness for him.

It didn't take much – an accidental brush of the fingers as she passed him a plate; eyes meeting across a room; an irritable mutter of "Mrs. Lovett": any and all would recall the familiar dizziness, the warmth in her soul that tingled as much as it ached, the knotting of her lungs and heart.

_You don't have lungs or a heart anymore, fool, remember?_

She'd often made fun of women who fainted at a slight upset, or shrieked like the sun was melting when a spider crawled across their shoe. But now, Nellie was beginning to realize, there were some physical reactions that could not be helped. The mind and body did not always work as one.

She would never again make fun of those women, she vowed silently to herself.

"Mrs. Lovett!" a portly man called, waving his hand at her from where he sat at one of the small tables. "I could use a bit more ale."

"Not a problem, dearie," she responded, dashing over to him, ale bottle in hand.

"Thank you very much," he said as she poured him the alcohol, turning his face upward to grin at her.

She gasped and dropped the ale bottle; it hit the table, rolled, and smashed against the floor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Nellie cried out, flinging herself to the ground and snatching up the broken shards. "I can just be dead clumsy sometimes, don't know what came over me – "

"It's not a problem," said the man. "Here, let me help you with that, a woman shouldn't have to pick glass off the floor – "

"It's quite alright, really, love, you just sit tight, okay?" Nellie bounded back to her feet and backed towards the counter. "I'll just go another bottle of this and be back in a jiff, I promise – "

"You're too kind, Mrs. Lovett," said the man, smiling at her.

Nellie forced a smile in return and hurried to her cabinets to retrieve another ale bottle, dumping the glass shards in the waste bin as she flitted by, her heart pounding. "It should just be – ah, here we go – " she made a mad dash back to him " – that should keep you going for a while, eh?"

"Sure should," he rejoined with cheer, "thank you."

_Relax, Nellie,_ she told herself as she bustled off to check on the pies currently sitting in the oven. _You're going to have to get used to this. This may be the first time you've come face-to-face with a man you once chopped into bits, but it certainly won't be the last._

"Mrs. Lovett."

Her heart contorted again and she had to fight for breath. _Damn you, Eleanor, you good-for-nothing, useless –_

She forced her lungs to suck in a puff of air. "Yes, Mr. T?"

"That woman over there would like a donut."

"Tell her I'm out of donuts for the day."

He raised an eyebrow. "What is on that tray next to the scones, then?"

"Those are burnt donuts," she snapped, eager to get away from this conversation; didn't he understand that she had no time for this? Why did he continually have to provoke a fight with her? "They're burnt 'cause I trusted you to be able to pull 'em out of the oven before they blackened, I really didn't think that was a task too complex for you – "

"Had you told me that this was my responsibility before they had burned, I would have gladly taken them from the oven," he sneered. "Seeing as you didn't, however, I don't see how I could have known – "

"'Watch those donuts sitting in the oven while I run to the washroom, Mr. Todd,' is exactly what I said to you, and that was long before the bloody things had burned. How much more clear do I need to be? And now, thanks to you, they're charred far beyond the point of eating – "

"It isn't my fault," he growled.

"It is your fault!" she shrieked, and suddenly they weren't arguing about the donuts anymore.

Shaking, feeling the eyes of those customers nearest upon her, she turned away from him, snarling over her shoulder, "Offer the woman a pie instead. Everyone likes those more than the donuts anyway."

xxx

"This isn't working," Lovett announced to him one day as they were shutting down her bakery for the night. She turned the sign to 'closed' and spun to face him.

Sweeney, silently contemplating a glass of gin (that he had paid for) from a chair, looked at her without expression. He wished the woman would be quiet for once; her chatter was enough to drive even the most patient man up a wall. And Sweeney Todd was not, by any definition, a patient man.

He did have to admit – however reluctantly – that her voice was a welcome change from the thunderous silence pressing in on his ears during all those circles he'd been holed up in his room. But he did wish more often than not to shut her up – as well as all the other customers who flooded into the shop – and would find himself fantasizing about how they would look with slit throats. More than once, too, he pondered if it was possible to hallucinate cutting another soul's throat. They couldn't die twice, so it wouldn't do any serious harm, but what would happen? Would a mark be made? Would any blood spill? Oh, to see all that red against their pitch-black robes –

"Mr. Todd!"

"What?" he growled.

"You even listening to me?"

"Yes. Of course." He stood up from the table and moved towards the counter to begin washing dishes.

"Then what did I just say?"

Why hadn't he cut her throat? he wondered with idle detachment, staring at his former landlady with vacant eyes. What had possessed him to throw her into the oven instead? He knew he'd had a reason at the time – when did he not have a reason for his actions? – but he couldn't recall it anymore. She would have been so much prettier with a necklace of rubies lining her throat . . .

"I _said_ – " she smacked his shoulder " – we've got to get you another job."

His eyes drifted from her collarbone to her face. "What for?"

"What for?" Lovett lifted an eyebrow. "What, d'you _like_ working for me? 'Cause I sure couldn't tell. Look, neither of us is happy with this little arrangement, so why not do something about it?"

Was she really still naive enough to believe that things one was unsatisfied with could be changed with a snap of the fingers? He rapped a plate with his knuckles as he stacked it atop the other clean ones. "What else would I do?"

"Well, I don't know just yet, but I'm sure if we put our noggins together we could come up with something grand." She strolled over and slid herself atop the counter.

Sweeney looked at her. "I just washed that."

"So you'll wash it again once I'm done sitting here," said Mrs. Lovett with supreme indifference.

He gnashed his teeth. The woman was infuriating. Couldn't she just leave him alone for once? If she hated him as much as she claimed to, then she _should _be giving him a wide berth.

He would have been giving_ her_ a wide berth, if he could. But he did not know where else he would work, if not for Lovett's, what other shop keeper would possibly let him near. The easiest solution would have been to go on as before and not work whatsoever, but he needed to keep Reyna happy. He needed to fulfill his end of the bargain and partake in the Is community – else, when the time came, she wouldn't fulfill hers.

He visited Reyna's office every circle. It was part of his new morning ritual: just as he stepped through the wall thinking of Lucy every circle, so he did with Reyna. Except Reyna was always there and Lucy never was.

True to her word, Reyna kept an Earth calendar in her office – a giant sheet of parchment that covered her entire far wall and was divided into a four by three grid, one sizeable box for each month, with an incomprehensible blur of letters and tally marks on each – and, just distinguishable within all the other markings, a tiny, initialed _'S.T.'_ on _January 11__th_ of 1843. The date he had emerged from his room. A date five months and five days after he had died.

Had it truly been almost half a year since his death? The wounds still seemed so fresh, the razor still stinging his throat despite the fact that his neck was whole – her cornflower blue eyes still impaling his soul despite the fact that he had forced them closed –

Reyna told him that Earth time and spirit time were not relative, that there was no connection between them. And he could see for himself that this was true: despite he checking in on Reyna every circle, the number of Earth days she had crossed off since his last visit always varied with no apparent pattern. Sometimes, seven Earth days had been marked off; sometimes merely two or three; sometimes none at all.

"How do you even know this is accurate?" he asked one morning. "Do you visit Earth and peek at their calendars?"

"We have our ways," replied Reyna blithely, merely continuing to make nonsensical random letters upon her calendar.

"How?" he demanded, wincing before he even heard her smiling reply:

"It is what it is, Mr. Barker."

"Now," Lovett rambled on, swinging her feet. Her heels _click_ed against the wood cupboards as they hit them; he ground his teeth further together as he jerked back to the present. "Let's think about your likes and strengths and such. You can't cook, that's for certain, so nothing in that field. And you're not the most social person to ever grace the world either, so something dealing with a lot of people is out too."

She cocked her head, considering him. He continued to wash and stack the dishes, contributing no thoughts of his own on the matter.

"You were always a great artist with your razors," she said; her volume was very soft, for she must have known that she was breaking one of the silent rules they had established: no mentioning the past. The stiffening of his spine was reflexive. "Maybe that artistic flair would transfer to other crafts?"

Sweeney, finished with washing the dishes, began to place them back in the cupboards. As usual, he was not really listening to her words, but merely the tone and the vague meaning. Get another job? It did have its appeals, that was for certain. He might never have to see Lovett again – or at least he wouldn't have to deal with her on a regular basis.

But what would he do? He couldn't be a barber again, since – for whatever reason – hair didn't 'hallucinate' growing. He didn't know any other trade. Maybe he could try and learn one? Or he could work with someone and thus have the work divided, as he was doing now in _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_. Not much liking people, however, this idea too had its flaws.

"You could, I don't know, get into sketching. Or painting. I'm sure people would like to buy some nice artwork."

And he wasn't sure he'd like working with some unknown person who would very likely want to talk to him, grow a friendship between them. At least Mrs. Lovett was familiar territory; he was used to her, he knew what to expect.

"Mr. Todd, you listening to me?"

What was the point of any sort of job, though? There must be a way out even without the help of Reyna, an escape from this hell that was not hell but somehow ten times worse – the hell of his mind. He did not want to work. He did not want to live, not on Earth and not here –

"_Mr. Todd!"_

"Ack! Dammit – " he clutched his head in pain " – what was that for, woman?"

Lovett glared up at him. Without he noticing, she had jumped down from the counter and now stood in front of him, one hand poised against her hip, the other clutching the rolling pin she had just hit him over the head with.

"I'm trying to help you," she shouted. "I'm trying to help you get out of here and find another job, one where you don't have to be 'round me and I don't have to be 'round you and we'd both be a lot happier – or at least not so damn miserable. But if you'd rather wallow in your own grief than do anything 'bout it, if you'd rather put up with me and do this stupid loathing dance that we do – then fine. Fine! I don't care."

She paused for breath, and then waited, as though expecting to be interrupted, or lashed out at. Sweeney did nothing but continue to massage his aching scalp. For some reason, this only seemed to make her angrier. She slapped the rolling pin down onto the counter and picked up in its place a plate with a leftover slice of pumpkin pie.

"Eat," she commanded as she shoved the plate into his hands.

"I'm not hungry."

"That's bullshit," Lovett returned, the vehemence in her tone crackling like smoke. "You haven't eaten since jade – you're bound to be hungry by now."

"I'm not. I don't want it."

She threw up her hands and let out a frustrated cry. "What _do_ you want, Todd? Look, just eat the damn pie, alright? You must be hungry, and it's not as though you can't pay for it, so you're out of excuses to not – "

He put the plate down on the counter. "I don't want it," he repeated.

"And why the ruddy hell not? It's a perfectly good piece of pie! _Oh_." Realization lit her eyes. "You're still getting free food from your little farmer friend, aren't you? So you don't want to eat mine when you know that you won't have to pay for hers, is that right?"

Sweeney tilted his head to one side, neither a no nor a yes, stacking away the remaining dry utensils.

He felt Lovett's gaze on him narrow. "Does she know that you've got a job now?"

He closed the cupboards; work done, he started for the door as he told her tonelessly, "No."

"So that poor girl is still thinking that you're out of work, while meanwhile you're mooching off free food from her?" Fury ignited her words and sent them whizzing across the room where they lingered and throbbed, obscenely loud and infuriating, in his ears. "That's dishonest, Mr. Todd."

Rage bubbled in his stomach and flooded up his throat; he whirled back around to face her. "Don't talk to me about _dishonesty_, you who lives in it – "

"Yes, I who lived in it, and who died from it too!" said Lovett with an unnatural, high-pitched laugh. "Isn't that enough for you? When will you have to stop bringing up all my mistakes?"

"Mistakes?" His hands were twitching wildly; the only way to keep from throttling her was to clench them into fists so tight he thought he might break his own fingers. "Is that all you can say about what you did to me? About what you did to _her_?"

"You seem to've yet again forgotten _your _role in that – "

He made a move as though to leap at her, but stopped himself.

They stayed like that for a moment, suspended, glowering. Nothing ever came from these fights of theirs. She must be just as tired of the repetitiveness as he, of the same words being fired back and forth again and again, of nothing ever changing between them.

Pink spots of ire were still burned into her cheeks, but Lovett's tone was level when she inquired, "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Todd?"

His lips curled, words tasting bitter in his mouth as he replied, "As always, my dear."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are to my inner starving artist what fat juicy rats are to a cat. Seriously. Except I don't actually kill and ingest my reviews.


	8. Captive Hearts

_Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up… Love takes hostages. – Neil Gaiman_

xxx

The first circle that Sweeney did not show up in her shop for work, Nellie wasn't too terribly fussed about it. If the man wanted a circle off, he could take one. She would teach him about proper job etiquette – such as telling your boss beforehand that you would be missing a circle – later. Hopefully he knew that he wasn't earning any money for skiving off his duties.

She wasn't very bothered when he missed the next circle either. Sure, it meant more work for her, but frankly, it was nice not having him around all the bloody time. There were no grumbles, no stiff looks, no surly persona clouding up the cheery atmosphere she tried to keep in her shop.

By the third circle, she was a little ticked. If he wanted so much time off, the least he could do was tell her so to her face, instead of this immature silent treatment. Unless this was his way of saying he quit? No, he wouldn't quit, he needed the money . . . but what if he'd gotten another job? Surely he would have told her? Such a thing was common courtesy. Then again, those words probably weren't in his vocabulary.

Anyway – even if her limbs protested even more fervently than before without the extra help – she didn't need him around the shop. She was managing just fine, thank you.

A fourth circle went by without Sweeney returning to _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_, and then a fifth, and then a sixth, and then, and then, and then . . .

By now, Nellie was – without question – annoyed. Whether she needed extra help in the shop or not wasn't the issue. The man owed it to her to at least _inform_ her that he wasn't going to be coming to work for her anymore! What was he doing, anyway? Back to sulking? Dear God, she hoped not. Getting him out of his conclave had been hard enough once. Maybe this was his way of protesting? Protesting against what, though? Did he want more time off? Higher wages? Or maybe he had found another job? Her heart went out to the poor chap he now worked with, if that was the case. Still, he should have told her. Maybe he was just too furious with her to come back. They hadn't been arguing as viciously recently, but maybe he'd just been pushed over the edge. Or –

Pushing her palms against her eyelids, she let out a muffled groan. She was cursed with the tendency of over-thinking everything. Pondering and wondering wouldn't accomplish squat. The only thing that _would_ accomplish something was going to see the man herself. The thought hardly delighted her, but what other choice was there?

Mind made up, Nellie wasted no time in marching straight over to the door labeled _Benjamin Tam Barker _after her shop closed for the evening.

"Mr. T?" Nellie called, banging on the door. "I know you're in there."

She didn't, actually, but being forceful sounded better than calling out a wishy-washy, 'Could you please open up if you're there, dear?'

"We need to talk. Open up."

Predictably, she received no response.

"This is stupid," she snapped at the door. "You can't just expect to never have to speak to anyone unless forced into a corner – you need to tell me what the ruddy hell is going on, and if I can expect to see you back in my shop tomorrow. You're not getting paid for all this time off, y'know."

She paused and listened to the answer of silence.

"Dammit, you listen here, Todd! I'm not going to just sit around and tolerate you and your moods anymore, you need to either snap out of it or – or – " She couldn't think of a good threat. To make up for this, she lunged for the door even though she knew it would be locked.

It wasn't.

"Alright," said Nellie, marching inside, "so what the bloody hell is going – " She stopped when she realized that the room was empty.

"Bugger," she muttered to herself. But he was bound to be back soon, she reasoned. Sweeney wasn't the type to stay out all night socializing, that was for certain. Soon he'd probably return, grumpy as ever. She perched on top of his desk to wait for him, watching as the chords passed from orchid . . . to magenta . . . to scarlet . . . to red . . . to . . .

Where _was_ that fool? This was getting ridiculous. Soon it would be morning, and she wasn't about to lose a whole night's worth of sleep just because of him.

_You mean the way you used to?_

Shrugging away from those thoughts, Nellie folded her arms and gave her best glare to the clock, which ticked on stoically. She didn't normally catch much shut-eye, but even so. She had a business to run, a business that promised to be open each circle in seven chords . . . six chords . . . five . . .

She found herself beginning to doze off. Pinching her arm, she sat up straighter. She was not going to fall asleep while waiting for him – and she'd be damned if she was going to go back to her room at this point . . . or lie down on his bed . . . which, despite knowing first-hand that the cots here were unyielding and bearable at best, was looking more and more appealing by the minute . . . point . . . whatever . . .

"Mrs. Lovett."

She snapped to attention, glowering at the man who now stood in the doorway. "It's about bloody time, Mr. Todd. I've been waiting up nearly all night for you. What the hell've you been thinking, just leaving my shop like that and not coming back for circles on end?"

He did not speak, but shut the door and moved further into the room; his eyes, normally far away with the ghosts of his past, were dark and fixed upon hers, but she could not read the emotion in them.

"That's no way to treat your boss," she ranted as he continued to advance upon her. "If you don't want to work for me anymore, that's fine, and I couldn't care less, but you've got to tell me – and if you got another job, well, that's also something you need to tell me! What, am I just s'posed to be able to read your thick mind now?"

Sweeney stood directly in front of her now. Her spot sitting atop the desk brought them eye to eye. Inert were his limbs, impenetrable were his eyes, and they were still trained on hers – he was making her nervous, though she did not show this.

"It's not acceptable behavior, d'you hear me? It's just not, Mr. Todd, and I guess you think I'm going to keep on excusing all your actions for you, but I won't – and it's time you took responsibility for what you've got now and not just dwelling on the past and pretending as though you don't give a damn about anything that still exists – "

"I'm sorry."

The words took her by such surprise that speech solidified in her mouth for a moment. "You – I – what?"

"I'm sorry."

Her eyebrows scrunched together. She couldn't remember the last time Sweeney had said he was sorry. She didn't think he _ever_ had, in fact. His face was still a vacant mask, so she could not tell if he was telling the truth, or merely trying to placate her.

"Well," Nellie struggled to communicate, "that's – that's very kind of you to say, and I sure hope this means you'll be more forthright in the future, 'cause I'm not going to put up with – "

His hands settled against the base of her neck, and she nearly gasped, ready to struggle, scream, whatever she had to do – but his fingers were light against her skin, absent of the urge to hurt. "Do you never shut up, woman?" he growled in a thick voice.

And then his lips were blanketing hers, his hands sliding up from her neck to cup her face and tangle in her hair. She was shocked, more than shocked; she began to struggle against him, rational thought telling her that she should not let the very hands that had murdered her, the very lips that had literally kissed her good-bye, ever touch her again . . . but rational thought was being swept away like the drawing back of the tide as the kiss deepened, as his hungry lips continued to ravage her, his mouth nipping its way down her throat in the familiar patterns he knew she loved, his hands trembling with desire as they ran down her body.

"_Eleanor . . ."_ With the way his neck was fitted into the crook of hers, she could feel the vibrations in his throat against her skin as he said her name – and that was her breaking point. So she gave in, succumbed to the kisses and caresses and adoration he was showering on her like the heaviest of London rains, drawing him closer, gripping his hair, kissing back just as ardently as he when his lips found hers again –

Someone was knocking at the door, but what did she care? Whoever it was could bloody well wait. She clasped his shoulders as he wrapped his arms around her, tugging at her robes –

The knocks persisted. A groan of irritation and lust filled her throat as she burrowed her face in his shoulder; couldn't they leave, those imbeciles, didn't they have the sense to just _wait_ . . .

"Mr. Todd? _Mr. Todd?_"

Nellie's head snapped up so fast that her neck popped in protest. Wincing, she rubbed a hand over it. It took her a moment to realize that Sweeney was no longer there – and another to realize –

"Mr. Todd? It's Grey Gardner."

It had been a dream. Nothing but a fucking dream.

"I'm Eloise's father. I just wanted to tell you that she's very worried about you. Whenever she comes to see you, you're not here. I don't know if you're in there right now or not, but I just wanted you to know . . ."

Shock that she had dreamed any such thing, mollification that her subconscious would entertain such thoughts, horror that her dream-self had enjoyed every single moment of it, that shameless tart – _you_ _shameless tart, you mean, that was _you_, you slut_ – all of these emotions threatened to overcome her. But she would not let them. It was nearly yellow – the time that she opened _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_ each circle. She'd dozed off for several chords. She had to get going. Leaping to her feet, she half-raced and half-stumbled (well, she _was_ lacking sleep) to the door.

"Oh, beg your pardon!" she cried as she nearly ran into a man who stood right outside the door; she hadn't realized he was still there.

He blushed. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't realize that Mr. Todd – or Mr. Barker – or – erm, I didn't realize that he – "

Nellie blushed too as she comprehended what he thought had been going on between she and Sweeney in the barber's room – the blush deepening as fragments of her dream fluttered to the forefront of her mind.

"Mr. Todd's not here right now, actually," she said. As though needing to show this to the man for it to be true, she opened the door wide so he could get a clean view of the room himself. "See? Empty as can be. I was waiting for him, but it's about time I was at my shop, y'see, so I must be off . . ."

"Do you know when he might be back? My daughter is acquainted with him, but she hasn't seen him in quite some time, and has been worried . . ."

"Your daughter?" Nellie echoed as she shut the door, her mind flashing absurdly to Lucy for reasons even she didn't understand . . . and suddenly a whole hornet's nest had been ripped open: what if Sweeney had finally found his wife somewhere on Is? Could that be where he was?

"Yes, my daughter, Eloise," the man said, but Nellie was having trouble listening now. "I don't suppose you know where he – "

"Sorry dear, but I've got no idea where he's at right now." The lie fell from her lips before she had time to realize it was such. So much for her pact with herself not to lie, or partake in any manner of capering around the truth, anymore. "Now if you'll excuse me, I really must be off . . ."

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry. If you do find out where he is, would you mind popping over and letting me know? Grey Gardner, by the way."

"Pleasure to meet you – I'm Nellie Lovett. And I wouldn't mind at all," said Nellie, patting him on the shoulder before bustling off towards the wall. "G'bye, Mr. Gardner."

Nellie's morning passed in a blur of pastries and tangled thoughts as she traipsed around her shop with bleary eyes. Her typical lunch break at cyan seemed to take forever to roll around, and when it finally did, she wasted no time in slapping up the 'back in a chord' sign and darting out.

_Lucinda Barker, Lucinda Barker, Lucinda Barker,_ she thought, marching towards the wall. But when she opened her eyes, she was still right outside her shop.

Nellie was stymied by this lack of results. So convinced she had found the spot where Sweeney must be spending all his time, the thought that she might be wrong – the thought that Lucy might not even be on Is – hadn't even crossed her mind.

_Where is he?_

For the first time since Sweeney's disappearance, Nellie found a scrap of worry beginning to fester inside her. She had no idea where he was. He could be anywhere – he could be _nowhere_. Hadn't Barsid and Akello and all those others infuriatingly-closed-lipped people mentioned something about some beings disappearing from Is, about their souls vanishing entirely? Could that have happened to Sweeney?

Well, and what was it to her if it _had_ happened to him? She didn't care about that deceiving, murdering bastard. She didn't love him anymore. If he was gone, then he'd done the whole afterlife a favor. Everyone would be much better off shot of him.

Light fingers plucked at her heart like strings on a cello. Everyone would be better off . . . she didn't love him . . . yes . . . if he was gone . . . but the strings kept on playing, crooning – keening – the music building . . .

"_No!"_ she shouted, so furious with herself that the rage could not be contained only within her thoughts any longer. "You can't love your murderer, Nellie Lovett! You just can't! And you _don't_! You can't and you don't, and you don't give a shit where he is, or if he even _is_ – "

She snarled and barely kept her fists from slamming against the wall. No. She did not love him. Not anymore. That had vanished the moment she'd seen the flash of hate in his eyes beneath the false sheen of love, the moment she'd felt his hands on her waist tighten and his waltzing feet pick up their pace, the moment she'd realized he was about to kill her, the moment she'd comprehended that he was going to _betray_ her –

The strings were being played faster, notes of wailing agony – she didn't love him – it was a good thing if he was gone, if his soul had disappeared – if she never saw him again – she almost cried out loud as the strings were pulled so tight over the bow it felt as though they might break . . .

A shuddering sob ran the length of her body, and she choked on it, gasping for air, slumping sideways against the wall, at last bitterly resigned: She still loved him. There was no point in trying to pretend that she didn't; she couldn't fool herself. He had stolen her love long ago, and however she clambered or wished to reclaim it, she couldn't. He had used her, deceived her, killed her. It didn't make a difference. He still held her heart captive.

She was stupid. She was pathetic. She was naïve. She was everything she despised.

_("you've got to leave all that behind you now")_

Her own words – the words she spoken to him as they stood by his window, she trying to coax him away from all his demons – were a mockery in her ears now. Still, they gave her enough strength to take a deep breath, pull away from the wall, and look around the hall with eyes that saw nothing.

So she loved him – still loved him, had always loved him, would always love him. Fine. She was in love with her murderer. She still wasn't going to act upon these feelings and try to win his heart again. But she needed to find out what had become of him, if only to quell the ever-nagging wonder that she knew would always be present in her mind if she did not.

Yet where should she go? Who should she ask for help? If Sweeney really had wandered too far, then chatting to someone like Barsid or Akello or any of the others who seemed to run this show probably wouldn't do much good. They'd likely just clam up, like they usually did when asked about the lost souls.

Maybe she should go pay that Gardner man and his daughter a visit. He was a nice enough fellow. Even if he didn't know how to help her locate Sweeney, he seemed like the kind of man able to keep a secret and not go running to the authorities over the fact that there might be another soul that had vanished completely from Is.

_No, don't think that. He's probably just . . . stuck somewhere . . . or something._

She would go to Grey Gardner, then. But first she should probably put a sign up on her shop door saying she'd be closed for the rest of the circle. Dashing inside _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_, she scrawled a note saying just that. Her regulars would be disappointed, but what else was she to do? Besides, she hadn't taken a single circle off since coming to Is. It wasn't as though this was a habit of hers.

Harried, Nellie exited her shop – and across the hall saw Judge Turpin. In the flesh (_spirit?)_. Staring at her.

She froze.

But when she blinked, he was gone.

"First you dream of barbers, then you hallucinate judges," Nellie muttered, shaking her head at herself. "What's next, Lovett?"

Determined to not let her dreams or hallucinations distract her, she stepped up to the wall, thinking, _Grey Gardner, Grey Gardner. _Sure enough, she wound up right outside his door. She fisted her hand and knocked twice against the wood, but there was no reply. Well, it figured, she supposed. The man was probably off at his job.

"Are you looking for Daddy?"

Nellie spun around. A girl of no more than ten or eleven smiled up at her.

"You must be Eloise?" Nellie guessed.

Eloise nodded. "Yes. Are you a friend of Daddy's?"

"Well, no, not exactly – but I ran into him this morning around Mr. Todd's room – "

Her face lit up instantly at the name 'Mr. Todd.' Nellie wondered how a monster such as Sweeney could have befriended this sweet, innocent girl. Most children had tended to shy away from him on the rare occasions that he'd ventured out of his barbershop, sensing that there was something dark and different about this man; Toby had, at least _(no no no, don't think about him)_. It was easy to see why Sweeney would have been drawn to her, with those blue doe eyes and all that yellow hair – but what did this child see in him?

"You know Mr. Todd?" Eloise asked. "Where's he been? Is he okay? I keep going to visit him because he said that I'd see him again sometime. He never came to visit me so I thought I'd go and see him. I don't know where he goes all the time, I've been showing up at his door nearly every circle for at least twenty circles now, probably more, I've lost track, and – " her brow creased " – and I'm getting worried about him."

Nellie wished she could smooth over the wrinkles in the girl's pretty forehead. "I don't know where he is, love. But I've got a few vague ideas, and I was hoping you and your father could help me out. Is he at work right now?"

"Yes, but I could take you to him – I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I've told him about Mr. Todd, and he's getting concerned too."

"It's alright, dear," said Nellie, "I'm fine with waiting until he's off from work – "

But Eloise, apparently, was not, and shook her head gravely. "No, we should go right now. This could be important – urgent – come on, I'll take you to Daddy's shop."

"Really, love, we don't need to worry your poor dad, I'm sure Mr. Todd's fine – "

"You don't have to lie to me," said Eloise quietly.

The rest of Nellie's words stuck in her throat.

Eloise took her hand and pulled her into the wall. The two females reappeared in a corridor of shops before one that declared on its door _Grey Gardner, Tailor_.

_("No, something _paler_.")_

Eloise released Nellie's fingers and opened the door. "Daddy?"

"Hello, El," Grey Gardner called from where he stood taking the measurements of a stout man. "And – " his eyes lighted on Nellie " – ah, hello again. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Not a problem, take your time," Nellie reassured him, settling into one of the chairs by the wall. So it was possible to wear clothes here other than these black robes? She'd have to remember to go shopping at a later date. When she wasn't so preoccupied with things weighing far heavier on her mind than her current wardrobe.

Eloise sat down beside her. "So what's your name?"

"Nellie Lovett."

"Oh – I thought it might be Lucy."

Nellie's eyes snapped to the girl. "Why d'you say that?"

"Well, last time I saw Mr. Todd he was looking for someone called Lucy. He couldn't seemed to find her, and I guess he was really tired because he passed out. That's when I found him and helped him back to his room. He looked really upset and worried about her. Did he ever find her?"

Nellie made herself swallow in order to moisten her parched throat. "No idea, love." She doubted he had, since Lucy wasn't on Is, but what if he had squeezed into another afterlife and found her? Or what if he'd tried to find her and instead became lost . . .

"So who is she?"

"She's his wife." Admitting it still hurt.

"Oh," said Eloise, tilting her head, considering her feet as she swung them back and forth like pendulums. "I thought _you_ were his wife."

Arching an eyebrow, Nellie cast a careful eye over the girl. "And whatever gave you that notion?"

Eloise shrugged at her shoes. "You love him." Nellie's breath hitched; was she so obvious about her feelings for Sweeney that even a child could pick up on them? "I can tell from the way you talk about him, and your eyes get that far away look." Her volume lowered and she looked quickly at her father. "It's how Daddy looks when he talks about Mum . . . she isn't on Is."

Nellie couldn't reply.

At last, Grey Gardner's customer left, and he ambled over to put a lunch break sign on his door before turning his attention to them. "I'm guessing you don't have good news?" he asked, taking a look at their drawn faces.

"Well, no news, really," Nellie admitted. "But I – had some new thoughts . . . and I'd like to ask for your help. I know you haven't ever met the man, and if you don't want to help that's perfectly fine, I'm sure that – "

"Of course I'll help," said Grey, pulling up a chair. "As best I can, anyway. So what's going on?"

So Nellie explained everything to him (well, everything he needed to know – he didn't really need to know who Sweeney Todd was, or how she felt about him): how Sweeney had been working for her in her emporium; how she had not seen him for a very long time, by Eloise's estimate more than twenty circles; how she'd heard from Barsid and several others about souls disappearing entirely but didn't really know what that meant; how she thought that was very probable since she couldn't think where else he would be.

". . . so what I'm wondering is how much you know about souls who 'wander too far,' as I've heard it said," she concluded. "Or where they would be trying to wander to."

Grey cocked his head, mulling over all she had told him. "Hmm . . . depends on where he would want to go."

Nellie shrugged, her tight muscles creaking with the movement. "Couldn't say, really. Is there a way to get to other afterlives from here?"

Grey's eyes narrowed in thought. "Not that I know of . . . but . . ."

"But?" she prompted, clinging to the conjunction like a lifeline.

"Well – how much do you know about the netherlands?"

Spreading her hands wide, Nellie said, "Nothing at all, love."

"I figured as much. Anyone with an ounce of sense doesn't talk about them in public, for fear of being overheard by someone from the government. The netherlands are the peripheries of Is, you might say. Most of Is, as you probably know, is made up of hallways of stones in the pattern of an endless grid. But if you wander far enough through the halls without making use of walking through walls – or if you dissolve into the floor while thinking 'netherlands' – " Nellie shot the ground a wary look and lifted her feet as though to avoid getting sucked away " – you'll end up there."

"So what are they?"

"In appearance, they are nature at its most beautiful. The plants are always blooming, the sky is always brilliantly lit. . . . In reality, they contain all sorts of – well, magic. Witchcraft, you might say, though you certainly can't find any witches controlling it all. I don't think anyone knows for certain everything that's there – the nethers are nearly as large as the main part of Is. I've heard there's a tree that will lull you to sleep . . . a ditch that, should you fall into it, turns the land upside down . . . a haze of fog that ensnares you in fantasies so deep it becomes almost impossible to escape . . ."

Nellie shifted uneasily, but told him, "Mr. Todd's not the type to wander aimlessly. I don't think he'd travel around these netherlands unless he had a specific reason. And so far, none of these places sound like ones he'd want to see."

Grey seemed to chew on a few sentences before asking, "Does he have any desire to go back to Earth?"

"No, I don't think so, considering his wife is dead and she's all that – "

Nellie's body locked up, her brain firing rapidly. Lucy was dead . . . and since _she_ had always been the forefront of the many arguments between barber and baker, he clearly would have thought about trying to find her long ago, exhausted all possible options to reach her.

But there was still someone else, someone living, that he loved . . .

Eyes wide and desperate, she searched Grey's face. "Is there a way for souls to travel to Earth?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Happy Passover and Easter, lovies. Drop me a review and let me know your thoughts on this latest installment?


	9. Only Human

_Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over… Death is not anything… It's the absence of presence, nothing more… the endless time of never coming back. __ – Tom Stoppard_

xxx

Walking the streets of London, it didn't take long for Sweeney to realize one glaring problem in his plan:

He had no idea where Johanna was.

She was somewhere in London, yes, but that hardly gave him much of a reference. There were well over a million people living in London. She could be in any house, browsing any shop, wandering any street, and who knew where she and Anthony had gone off –

He froze. Anthony. Marriage. Sailing . . . sailing the world . . . _the world_ . . .

Sweeney had never listened very closely – well, he hadn't listened at all, to be frank – to the boy's eager babbles, but now that he was dwelling on it . . . hadn't Anthony mentioned traveling the globe? Showing Johanna places she had only ever dreamed about? Introducing her to all the fucking wonders of the world?

They could be anywhere. She could be anywhere. His Johannacould be halfway to bloody Peru by now, and he wouldn't be any the wiser. And he couldn't just think her name again and again and then show up at her door either – this wasn't Is. Things didn't work like that here.

. . . did they?

With a desperate hope in the bottom of his stomach, Sweeney closed his eyes – _Johanna Barker_ – no, he realized, and his stomach twisted –_ Hope, Johanna Hope _– and pivoted on his heel.

When he opened his eyes, the gray streets of London stared back at him.

He sucked in a breath. No matter. He had not truly believed such methods would work. He would just have to find another way. Never before had Sweeney so desperately wished to speak to someone, to _anyone_, to ask them where his little girl had gone to. But they would not be able to hear him. Even now, they walked right by him – right _through_ him, on several occasions – as though he wasn't there. Because he wasn't.

Johanna, however, was. She was here – somewhere – somewhere among the masses, the hordes of worthless people. And wherever she was, he would find her. He had made it this far, hadn't he?

_Only by mere chance. By a rare twist in fate in which you were blessed rather than cursed._

He shoved those thoughts away. Yes, it had only been luck that brought him here: luck that _(several days ago? several weeks? months?)_ he had overheard several customers in Lovett's shop discussing how souls could travel to Earth, luck that they had been discussing it just as he had started listening . . .

Sweeney had been sitting at a table, silent, staring at the floor, winding his finger around the rim of his glass again and again. It was ten minutes (or, as they were supposed to be called on Is, _points_) until closing time. A few customers were sitting at the tables, finishing up their food and drink, while he took a well-deserved break.

"Oooh, my poor bones have just about had it," Mrs. Lovett had declared, dropping into the chair beside his as she massaged her knees. "Busy day, 'specially that rush in the evening – wasn't prepared for it. But we managed, didn't we? I'm fresh out of sugar though. Well, so long as no customers come in during these last few minutes – points – we'll be fine 'til tomorrow. Y'know, adding that chocolate cake to the menu really spiced things up: lots of folks ordered and devoured it right down. Unsuspected successes are always nice, ain't they? Mmm, and I'm all out of ale too, those lawyers that came in at turquoise bled me right dry of it . . ."

Lovett continued babbling aimlessly. Did she realize that he wasn't listening? That he never listened? She must have, by this point. Yet why would she continue talking? Maybe because her mouth just needed something to do. Or maybe because if she stopped talking, stopped pretending as though all was normal between them, the reality would come crashing down again.

Their fights were not as frequent anymore – the exchanges of the familiar words, the frothing anger, all that was dimmed. Non-existent, nearly. Now the struggles were quieter, delicate, subtle: words exchanged through lingering glances rather than shouts, fury indicated with a jerk of the head or a clatter of plates. One might call it a game; it was the closest concept to fun they knew, at least. Neither enjoyed each other's company, nor the quarrels . . . but there was a certain art to the silent clashes, a kind of vicious excitement in tussling through glances and glares, a slight thrill if you came out on top.

Several times he would be reminded of other times they'd had altercations – times during which they had been alive, ferocious and immoral accomplices, tugging back and forth in their power struggles, exulting in their dark secret . . .

"_What about blacksmith?" she suggests, propping her chin on his bare chest. _

_Her hair, normally pinned up in some petty resemblance of a bun, has come undone, and hangs all over, tickling his skin. He lets it run through his fingers like thread, like silk, like a burgundy river – and all his. _

"_I think not," he deliberates slowly, "iron isn't a very appealing taste."_

No. He would not think about those times, those moments of villainous passion, those escapades for a different sort of lust than his usual blood thirst, those betrayals of his wife. How could he have done that with _her_, that slut, that bitch, that wife of the Devil . . . he would have never if he'd known his wife still lived . . . if she hadn't lied to him . . .

But he could not shove full blame upon Lovett, however much he might have desired to. She'd wanted and enjoyed those moments, but so had he – just as much as she had.

"_Well, how about scribes?" is her next proposal._

_He removes one hand from her hair to trail down her side, pressing and running his fingers against her skin like the piano he never learned to play. "Hmm . . . they're quite a mouthful, don't you think?"_

_She smiles. "Fussy customer, ain't you?" Her wearied features are softer here in the dim yellow candlelight, younger, more appealing; he can almost believe that she's pretty. "Alright, then – actor?"_

_Growling, he flips them both over; she tries to hide her giggles with a mock shriek of terror. "My dear, you are terrible at selling your goods. Don't you remember? You've already offered me actor. It's impolite to propose the same dish to your customers more than once."_

"_So sorry, Mr. Todd," she laughs as he laces kisses and bites down her throat. "I'll be more careful with my _goods_ in the future."_

". . . s'pose I should just go get those supplies now, before tomorrow's morning rush." Lovett got to her feet; distracted, he glanced up at her, guilt garnered from his recollections stabbing his soul. "You can hold down the shop while I'm gone, can't you, Mr. T?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll be back in a tick."

She left, and he resumed the steady contemplation of his knees. Behind him, the few remaining customers carried on with their chatter and eating; now that his memories had been interrupted, the noise they were making was obscenely loud, and he found it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

" . . . and then I told her, 'Laura, you know that I love you,'" one of the men was saying. "'But I'm not going to sing opera just for your sake. You've got to know your talents – there's a reason I became a metallurgist and not a singer.'"

"So how's your wife doing, George?" questioned another voice quietly; the chuckles of the others ceased.

"Pretty well, I suppose," said the man apparently called George. "I popped over a few circles ago to check on her. She's still upset."

"I'd be terrified to do what you do," one of the other men murmured. "Going down – up – whatever direction it is . . . what if something went wrong? I mean, none of the officials ever talk about it, so it must be pretty dangerous, going to Earth as you do – "

Sweeney's ears twitched – a wolf hearing the sound of its prey in the distance – and waited for more.

But George cut off the other man before he could continue. "Lower your voice," George implored. "We don't need one of the police or officials coming in here because of your loud – "

"Pish-posh, the walls are thicker than brick," the other man dismissed.

"It's a precaution," said George. "Anyway, Maggie's still mourning. I wish I could tell her that I'm alright; I miss her smile. But at least the kids are there for her, and they're very encouraging, prompting her to continue her dress-making business and such . . ."

George continued to talk, his words flowing through Sweeney's ears like the purest of music: there was a way for souls to visit Earth. He could see Johanna, see if she was okay, if she was happy, if she had yellow hair – everything he had never had the chance to do. Lucy was dead, and – though he still searched, still hoped – the possibility of ever being with her again narrowed with every passing circle. But dear Johanna still possessed a life – and even if he couldn't be a part of it, he could witness it, watch over her, get to know his daughter. Make up for lost time as best he could.

Sweeney was not used to having the future so open, the possibilities so bright and numerous; they bubbled in his stomach and foamed up his throat as he turned around in his seat to face the men behind him. Their discussion immediately ceased as they all shot him wary looks.

"Excuse me," said Sweeney, his tone methodical and even, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation . . . and I believe one of you mentioned visiting Earth?"

"You're not an Is officer, are you?" one of the men, a burly fellow with a mop of orange hair, asked.

"'Course he isn't, Joe, he works in this shop," replied a man with a straight nose and straighter hair part. Sweeney recognized his voice: this was George. "Yes, I did."

Sweeney did his best to keep his tone casual and delicate. "What do you . . . mean by that?"

George tipped his chair back on its back legs as he considered the former barber. "First, before I tell you anything – you have to swear that you can keep a secret. And I'm not talking about the kind of secrets kids have – stealing a cookie right off the pan, or tripping a little brother. I mean a secret that, should someone who works for the Is 'government' find out, we'd be considered breaking the law."

"Well, not necessarily," the third man chimed in, his watery eyes shifting from Sweeney to George. "No one ever said it was against the Is laws. We can't be breaking the law if it doesn't exist."

"But none of them talk about it," George returned. "Not the messengers, the adjustors, the filers, the police, the deliverers . . . my point being, it's a touchy subject." His attention returned to Sweeney. "Anyway. Can you keep a secret or not?"

Oh, could he ever. "Yes."

George hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Well, yes," he said, and Sweeney marveled at how easily and foolishly this man dispensed his trust to others. "There's a way for us souls to visit those who are still alive. We can't bring ourselves back to life – we appear on Earth as mere outlines, nothing more substantial than smoke – echoes, I suppose you could say. In these forms, we have no influence on Earth things at all: no one who's still alive can see us. And we can't taste, smell, or touch anything on Earth. But we can hear. We can see."

That was all that Sweeney needed to know. "How do you get there?"

"Through the nethers." George paused, as though waiting for a reaction from Sweeney. "Mmm, you don't know what I'm talking about, do you? I guess you're new here? The netherlands – nethers for short – are the outer edges of Is. The places that no one talks about. They're the parts of Is that break away from the hum-drum stone walls, the grid formation, and instead become. . . ." The man faltered under Sweeney's intense gaze, and spread his hands. "Well, the nethers aren't something you can really explain . . . they just. . . . Maybe I should take you there?"

Sweeney nodded. George clambered to his feet, bid his friends good-bye, and then walked through the wall, Sweeney following. They reappeared in the corridor outside the shop.

"Right," said George, "here comes the frustrating part. The nethers are huge, and – unlike when you walk through Is walls – there's no option of just thinking of the exact location you want to turn up at, and then arriving right there. All you can do is think 'netherlands' repeatedly, and hope you melt to the spot that you want to be at."

"Melt?" Sweeney echoed.

George's mouth curved in a smile. "Grab onto my sleeve. And close your eyes. This can be disorienting."

Sweeney found these instructions strange, but he was in no mood to argue – not when he was so close to seeing the daughter he had not laid eyes upon in well over sixteen years, not when one wrong word could mean the difference between visiting her or having this man refuse to help. And so, compliant, he took hold of George's sleeve and shut his eyes.

It felt as though he was falling then – but it was a controlled fall, steady and smooth, as though there were a platform beneath his feet sinking towards the floor. Sweeney chanced opening his eyes: his feet and legs were gone, as though he had been cut off at the waist. George, eyes still open, caught Sweeney looking, and smiled tautly when their gazes met.

"It's about to get worse," George warned him.

It didn't seem to be; they were still falling lower at that same smooth pace, descending into the unknown. As soon as his eyes were level with the floor, however, the 'worse' part began. His body was hurled in one direction, and then another, and then another, million of unseen hands shoving him towards different paths. Impenetrable black covered his vision as he was thrown about, so he could not tell what he was moving towards or even what direction he went in. The only solid matter was George's sleeve, his lifeline; he clutched it even tighter, thinking repeatedly, _The netherlands, the netherlands, take me to the netherlands, the netherlands . . ._

The falling and tossing ended; Sweeney landed intact and smack on his feet, George beside him. Gone were the gray stone walls – gone were _all_ walls. They stood in a grassy meadow, willow trees stretching above them, the sun setting on the horizon.

"Is this Earth?" Sweeney asked, releasing George's sleeve.

George shook his head. "No. I know it looks that way at first glance, but the reality is that it's far from it." He squinted. "I think they're off that way. . . ." Feet crunching a brisk pace against the ground, George strode off, leaving Sweeney to follow.

Whatever his companion said, it looked like Earth to Sweeney. The grass was green, rustling in the soft wind; the trees were solid and flourishing; the sky a splatter of colors. A gorgeous silence enveloped the entire area, free of crowds, the clatter of harried footsteps, and Lovett's unending downpour of babble. Sweeney breathed in deeply, feeling something he hadn't felt in a very long time. What was this emotion called? This calm restfulness?

Contentment. Nature was blooming, the world (or wherever this was) was quiet, he would soon see his beautiful daughter – and Sweeney Todd was content.

As they wandered through the field, he observed that there _were_ differences from Earth. Though he welcomed the quiet, there was something unnatural about only hearing his padding footsteps and the whispering wind. There was no one else here, he realized. No souls, no birds, no animals. No one at all save for he and George and the trees. Too, there was something peculiar in the colors present here: each shade was distorted, too bright or too dull, too solid or too faded, or desaturated, or out of focus . . .

"Whoa, careful there." George grabbed his upper arm and yanked back, hard. "Watch where you step."

Sweeney twisted out of his grasp.

"Sorry," said George, "I just didn't want you stepping off there . . ."

Following his gaze, Sweeney saw a hole in the ground, a foot wide across and no more than five inches deep. "I would have lived."

George laughed, but there was no humor in his tone when he spoke. "You just have to watch your step around the netherlands. Not everything is as it appears, and if you're not careful, you could end up someplace you don't want to be. I once – well, but that's neither here nor there. Come on, let's keep going. I see them up ahead, we're very nearly there . . ."

Stowing away his discomfort, Sweeney continued on through the meadow with George. Abruptly, the grass ended. Water merged seamlessly where the grass and dirt broke off, a vast ocean like that he had never seen stretching farther than the eye could witness. Its waves were choppy and frequent, its color flat and gray; nothing like water on Earth that was blue and white and everything in-between, shimmering and reflecting fractured light back up to the sky.

"Well, here you are." George nodded in the direction of the ocean. "These are the waters. Is's passageway to Earth." Obviously sensing the excited fire that had been reignited in Sweeney at these words, George put a hand against his shoulder. "But there are a few things you should know before jumping in. So, to get to Earth, all you have to do is dive under the surface and swim down. Swim far enough and you'll eventually make it. But you've got to have a specific location in mind, otherwise you'll keep swimming down and down until you hallucinate passing out – which, trust me, isn't fun. Think hard about where you want to go – it can be an address, a city, a business, whatever – and you'll make it."

"Should I even ask how any of this is possible?" Sweeney's voice was hollow with desire, eyes locked on the gray waves.

"It is what it is." Sweeney could hear the bleak smile in George's tone. Sweeney made to leave, but was grabbed again. "One final point – and this is important – make sure you don't stay on Earth for more than one full Earth day. Souls aren't meant to wander the world of the living."

"You said that we can't be seen by the living."

"We can't."

With effort, Sweeney tore his eyes away from the waters and fixed them on George. "Then what . . .?"

"Well, I don't know exactly what happens," George admitted. "I've never experimented. But I've heard that bad things fall upon souls that stay too long."

In other words, it was a scare tactic meant to keep the souls from visiting Earth, a warning that had no reality behind it. Sweeney disengaged his arm from George's fingers. "Thank you. Please, leave me."

George nodded and took a step back, then stopped, hesitating. "If you don't mind my asking . . . who is it?" When Sweeney only looked at him, George clarified: "That you're wanting to visit, I mean."

"My daughter," came the short reply; would no one ever leave him alone?

Understanding flooded George's features. "Good luck. Take care." As though he were made of water himself, he dissolved into the ground without another word and vanished from Sweeney's sight.

Alone at last.

Moving like a hawk – swift and precise and no hesitation – Sweeney took a breath and dove into the waters. He had braced himself for cold, but the fluid was lukewarm, almost pleasant. _London, London, London, London, London,_ he thought as he angled himself downward, spreading his arms wide for each stroke, kicking his legs behind him. The vast grayness of the water made it hard to see, but he kept moving down. The Is robes billowed around him, somehow making him lighter rather than weighing him down, like an encouraging wind, like a guiding hand, like wings.

_London, London, London . . ._

He kept swimming, but the desire for a fresh breath of air was beginning to overtake him. He couldn't turn back now; by this point he was surely closer to the bottom than to the surface. He didn't _need_ to breathe anyhow – though from the way his lungs were protesting, they clearly thought differently.

_One more stroke and you'll be there,_ he told himself in an effort to keep his mind away from the subject of air, _one more kick and you'll be there, one more push and you'll be there, one more –_

And then he was there.

_Here._

In London.

"_Johanna,"_ he whispered, and the word sung with a thousand promises that it had never held before.

But that had been then, who knew how many days or months ago, and this was here, now: with he wandering the streets of his former residence and unable to locate his daughter. Unable to know even where to begin.

Clenching his jaw, he kept walking.

xxx

"_And once Johanna and I have gone 'round the world, we'll come back to London and live here. Make a home."_

Sweeney was not sure if Anthony had actually spoke those words to him, or if Sweeney – so desperate to recall what he had not been listening to – had fabricated them. It didn't matter, for Sweeney was going to heed them, at least for now. He didn't know how much time had passed since Anthony and Johanna's marriage, but he did know that his death had occurred around six months ago, so the pair were likely already wed and should be (would be, could be – might _not_ be) back in London, settling down somewhere.

Even if they weren't, it wouldn't do him any good to panic at the fact that she could be anywhere. London was the most likely place. Yes, best to start in London and systematically pace the streets until either he'd found her or searched everywhere.

So, he did just that. He walked through street after street, peered in house after house. Physical rules did not apply here, which worked both to his advantage and disadvantage. On the one hand, it meant that he could walk through anything – people, walls, furniture – and not be affected whatsoever. On the other, he couldn't pick up an object he might want to examine further (once a sealed envelope on a kitchen counter with 'Johanna' written on it had caught his eye), or catch a carriage if his legs were sore from the infinite hours of walking.

His needs – that is, the hallucinations of his needs – interfered far more than he would have liked, constantly interrupting his methodical search. Every few hours, he would need to find some ditch in which to piss, or a quiet corner to sleep for a bit (always on the ground – which, for whatever reason, was the only solid thing for a spirit). Eating posed a problem initially – he couldn't pick up real food. He could not return to Is, not when he was so close. In desperation and in compromise, when his hunger pangs became too great to ignore any longer, he returned to the netherlands periodically to eat fruit from bushes or trees. The fruit came in abnormal colors and usually tasted of rubber, but he did not care.

He didn't know how much time went by. He did not bother to count the rising and setting of the sun, nor to listen to the chimes of Big Ben. It made no difference to him.

xxx

Had the wisps of blonde atop her head flourished into thick golden locks? Did those blue eyes change colors, as was the case with many babies, or were they still the shade of a cloudless sky on a sun-streaked day? Was she tall and willowy, as Lucy had been, or of a different physique? What was her smile like? What about her laugh? What did she tend to smile or laugh _at_? How did she spend her time? How had she grown up? What had the judge done to her? Had he inflicted any horrors upon her, or had he left her alone? What was her favorite color? Her favorite food? What had been her first word? What had been her joys? Her sorrows? Her triumphs? Did she remember any part of her father, was he even a fingerprint on her memories? Had she been happy? Was she happy now?

The questions, the things he should have known about her, the things he would have known about her had that bastard never sent him away, were as countless as the days he spent wandering the streets of London, searching for the daughter he had never known. He had been absent for nearly her entire life. He had hardly any memories of her. Concepts that should have been second nature to him, details that were simply known by a family member – how she took her tea, the way she walked, what she dreamed of – he knew none of it.

And what was worse – he was realizing that he had hardly considered such things in the last year. So consumed by his need to seek revenge on Judge Turpin and all the other worthless people of the world, he had begun to forget his beautiful family: he had begun to forget the reason behind his actions. Yes, Sweeney had thought often about his wife and daughter, but usually within the context of his revenge – how such wrongs had been done to both of them, and how he must avenge them – forgetting to think on who they actually were.

It pained him to comprehend this fact, but he told himself that it did not matter now. Soon he would see Johanna again. Soon he would learn who his daughter had become.

xxx

"Johanna!"

The years hadn't been particularly kind to him. That was what the she-devil had said to him upon his return to London, and he could not have agreed more. Once upon a time, back when the naive Benjamin Barker had still been alive, he had believed that the world was beautiful and the possibilities in life were infinite. Sweeney Todd had been born knowing this was not true, that the world was cold, that lives could be ruined in the space of an instant by cruel circumstances and even crueler people. That innocent happiness could be broken as easily as glass.

That glass could not be repaired with a simple needle and thread, or a bit of glue.

That to hope that it could only led to further disappointment.

But when he heard a voice behind him call the name _Johanna_, Sweeney could not stop the rush of hope against hope from flooding through his veins: the hope that the years were taking a scrap of pity on him, or at least had decided to turn a blind eye for a moment and give him back one piece of glass that had remained intact.

Others would argue differently – even, at times, he himself – but Sweeney Todd was only human. No matter how many disappointments a human has undergone, how long ago or deep down the hope has been buried, there are still moments when it flees across the soul, a ghost skimming across its grave, a flicker of light in the dark.

Nearly bursting with hope, cursing himself for continuing to be so foolish, for setting himself up for yet another inevitable hammer to his already pulverized heart, Sweeney Todd turned around.

So did Johanna.

Not just any Johanna, as the logical part of him had feared.

His Johanna.

He had not laid eyes upon her for sixteen years, but he knew it was her. He _knew_. Even before she spoke, even before she raised a white-gloved hand in greeting to the young man who had called to her, even before she flashed a winsome smile at him.

"Hello, Anthony," she said in the melodic voice of an angel.

She looked just as he had imagined and yet was nothing like he had pictured; she was a replica of Lucy yet there were traces of him in her features; she was her own person. Her skin was the color of milk tinged with a gentle blush; loose yellow waves the color of golden wheat fell down her back; delicate lips and cornflower-colored eyes were set upon an oval-shaped face.

She was so familiar, so much like Lucy, but it was more than that, some other way in which she was familiar –

"_Come for a shave, have you, lad?"_

"_No, no – please – please, sir – "_

_He does not listen to the boy; the last thing he needs right now is another threat, another potential being who may go running to the authorities. He drags the boy into the barber chair by his shirt collar, ignoring the lad's stammers._

_But then he hears the scream from downstairs –_ Eleanor_ – reflexively he bolts for the stairs, but then hesitates – _the lad, the lad, dammit, don't let him get away to the authorities_ – but the young man has taken the barber's hesitation to his advantage and already fled the shop._

_He'll take care of the boy later, he vows as he runs for the bakehouse._

Cold water flooded his veins, blocked every artery, froze over the splintered, writhing remains of his heart:

He had almost cut the throat of his daughter. He had almost spilled his little lamb's blood all over his hands.

He had almost killed his entire family in one night.

"Did you enjoy your shopping excursion?" Anthony questioned as he smiled and placed a hand on her arm.

"Indeed I did," Johanna returned, mocking his formal tone, her smile widening.

"It's a bit strange being back in London," Anthony confessed in a quieter tone. "I don't feel that joy that I used to – "

"That's why we don't live here," Johanna cut him off, in a tone that seemed sharper than she intended. Softening, she kissed his cheek. "We must get used to it. The past remains, but we have to move on."

Pulled by an invisible string of love for his daughter and repulsion at himself, Sweeney tramped towards the couple until he stood less than a foot away. This was his daughter . . . his beautiful daughter . . . at last he was with her . . . and to think he had literally been an arm sweep away from murdering her . . .

"Come," said Johanna, looping her arm through Anthony's. "I've done enough shopping for today. Let's hire a carriage back home."

The couple chattered with ease as they ambled down the road in search of a carriage; Sweeney, an invisible intruder, followed them.

xxx

Anthony and Johanna Hope lived in Plymouth, close by the bay. Their home was a lavish mansion, a perk of Johanna inheriting all of Turpin's wealth. The two had returned from their extravagant honeymoon a week ago, during which they had sailed to nearly every place in the world, as far as Sweeney could tell – Tibet, Spain, New York, Egypt, Peru, Ghana, India – for more than five months. Tomorrow was their seven month anniversary.

Sweeney had trailed the pair of them all the way to their home, even despite that he had to run to keep pace with the carriage: a journey that took well over eight hours. Amazing what the body (the spirit?) can do when charged with adrenaline, with overwhelming love, with the fear of losing someone yet again.

He followed them through their front door when they arrived home. He stood in the kitchen while they cooked a meal (well, Johanna did most of the cooking – Anthony, though he put in a sincere effort, mostly slowed things down). He sat with them at dinner. He lounged in the parlor while they read, each with their nose stuck in a different book, occasionally looking up to speak to one another.

He was being the father he never had been, even if she didn't know he was there.

Though a viper of irritation nipped at his skin each time Anthony so much as held Johanna's hand, he could see that the boy did love and take good care of her. It was clear that Johanna loved him too. They reminded him of he and Lucy in many ways: the light chatter that flowed between them as easily as the air they breathed, the simple gestures of affection, the bubble of loving happiness. Yet there was something between them that he and Lucy had not had: an awareness of the world. However naïve they were, however caught up in their whirlwind of young love, they recognized the cruelties of life as well, the darker nature of man.

Despite the torrent of emotions within him – joy at having found his daughter, horror with himself that he had nearly killed her, pride that she was charming and intelligent and clever, pain that he did not know the woman she had become – a relief fluttered over his soul: he had found her. He had succeeded in picking up the broken remains of his family. Maybe not as he had originally dreamed, and maybe not as he remembered his family once being – but nonetheless, he had salvaged what was left. And nothing – and no one – could take this away from him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are love.


	10. Feel Everything

_Maybe this is why so many serial killers work in pairs. It's nice not to feel alone in a world full of victims or enemies. __– Chuck Palahniuk_

xxx

The passage of time on Is was technically a moot issue, considering that there was no sun to rise and set, indicating an elapse of days. Besides, all the inhabitants had nothing but time, so marking it wasn't terribly significant. Still, it provided a structure, and made it easier to fall under the delusion that time did still exist, that what you did still mattered. Everyone was encouraged to have some sort of job, be it within the government, such as a helper, a transitioner, or a messenger; a trade, like a carpenter, masoner, or weaver; or running a shop, as perhaps a hat maker, book seller, or jewelry crafter. Money – or as it was called here, talent – was made from some material called resper, which could be crafted from a mixture of water, iron rust, and scraps of copper. Nothing on Is was precisely 'real,' seeing as everything perceived by their senses was a hallucination – but what was real, anyway? They could still see, could still hear, smell, taste, touch. Could still feel.

Nellie Lovett had finally gotten used to Is, and now she was about to leave.

Her feet balanced on the edge of a grass field. The gray water that met with the grass boundary she stood upon licked her toes. This was the place Grey Gardner had told her to go. These were the waters that would take her to Earth.

She had no idea how she was going to find Sweeney. She had no idea if he was even on Earth. But she was still going to go, however apprehensive she was about the whole thing, however much the thought continued to nag at her that – whether she cared about him or not – she shouldn't allow him to dictate her life _(death)_ anymore.

_Love makes fools of us all,_ she thought to herself with a grimace, before diving into the waters.

xxx

London looked just as it always had. She didn't know why she had expected anything different, really. The world wouldn't stop spinning just because of one more death. And she hadn't thought that her death would change much on a large scale – she wasn't stupid, she wasn't conceited . . .

Still, it came as something of a surprise. As though she had hoped, for its sake, that London would be different now. A bit better. But it wasn't. The streets were filthy, the air bitter with smog and deceit, the roads lined with all manner of shady characters. Despite the many men Sweeney had slaughtered in his search for justice, it hadn't made a difference.

She suddenly had the urge to see Fleet Street again, but repressed it. He wouldn't be there. Besides, did she really want to see what had become of her establishment? Her home? Either it would have been renovated and sold, or abandoned, and neither would be pleasing to see. No. She couldn't get side-tracked with the past, especially now.

_Did Toby manage to survive?_

The thought, one that she had become accustomed to tucking away, pressed prominently against her mind. This, too, was something she couldn't focus on now. Toby was beyond her help. Sweeney might not be.

_Sweeney . . ._

Where was he, anyway? How the hell was she going to be able to find him? She figured the most likely place was somewhere in Britain – she didn't see why Johanna and Anthony would have left – but then again, the boy was a sailor. They could be anywhere. And so could Sweeney Todd. Perhaps she should just pace the streets and hope to stumble upon them? Surely there were other options? There had to be.

_Where are you, love?_

She felt a strange pull on her stomach. Glancing down, she frowned at it. It felt as though someone had tied a rope around her middle and was now tugging her away, as though she were no more than cattle. But she couldn't see any rope, or anything out of the ordinary. What was going on? Were these the aftereffects of diving through the waters and reemerging in the land of the living?

The tugging became more persistent. She took a step in the direction it pulled her, and then another. Was this a sign of some sort? Or a tool available to spirits? Maybe it was just one of the many mystical things about being dead that couldn't be properly explained with logic? Maybe it was going to lead her to Sweeney?

_Maybe you're off your rocker?_

Maybe she was. _Probably_ she was. But Nellie had witnessed enough of the paranormal recently to know that sometimes . . . _well, sometimes, _she thought with another frown,_ it just bloody is what it is._

So she listened to the pull against her waist, and she followed it.

xxx

The invisible string led her down the familiar streets of London, winding this way, turning that way, strolling over here, meandering over there. Judging from the sun's position in the sky, it seemed she'd arrived on Earth mid-morning. As she walked, the day slowly wore on, the sun rising higher into the sky until finally it peaked and began to set again.

The twine led her further away from London. The sky grew darker. Stars began to twinkle. Nellie began to doubt her sanity even more. What if she was just imagining this pulling rope? What if it wasn't some perk of the afterlife, what if it was her madness babbling? Or what if she wasn't imagining the rope, but it wasn't leading her to Sweeney? What if it was going to take her somewhere else, try to hurt her, try to –

_Try to what, Nellie? _ Kill_ you? _

_For God's sake, stop fretting._

xxx

Eventually, she realized that her string was now tugging her towards one particular house. A _manor_, more like it – the place was huge. She would know soon enough, then, if she was making up this invisible rope, or if actually meant something, was actually taking her to him . . .

She found her hands were trembling, and clutched them into fists to get them under control.

She traversed up to the mansion, across the grass, along the walkway, through the front door. The manor was just as beautiful and huge on the inside as it looked from the outside – but she wasn't here to go house shopping. She drifted further into the house, past the entryway, the staircase, the kitchen, the dining room –

– into the parlor –

Her every muscle, every limb, became paralyzed.

His back was to her. He stood, watching a young couple cuddled together on the settee, reading. She recognized the boy as Anthony, and the girl could only be Johanna, with looks like those.

"Mr. Todd?" Her voice was less than a whisper. She didn't know if he heard her, or if he chose to ignore her, for he gave no reaction.

Regaining possession of her body, Nellie wafted closer until she stood right behind him. "Mr. Todd?" she tried again, but there was still no response from the man. She inched along until she stood at his side – and couldn't stop an involuntary gasp from fleeing her throat..

"Oh, God, Sweeney," she breathed, forgetting in that moment that he had killed her, that he hated her – that he was not the man he had once been. Her hands surged towards him, grasping his shoulders and forcing him to face her. Fingers glided up his neck and cupped his face. "What've you done to yourself?"

xxx

Lovett's hands were so solid against his face, so real – which was ironic considering both he and she were the least solid, the least real things in the entire room – so surprising that he flinched and tried to wiggle away from them, but she held firm, eyes wide and skin blanched, gaze sweeping his features with horror.

He supposed he should be shocked to see her here – but he wasn't, for some reason. As though he'd known that she would come eventually, as though he'd known that she could never go long without meddling in his existence.

xxx

"Leave me," he growled, his voice even rustier than normal from apparent disuse, and tried to wrench away from her. Normally, he outmatched her in all measures of physical strength.

Normally.

Now, there was barely any strength at all in her grip, yet she held him in place with ease.

"What've you done to yourself?" was again all she could whisper.

He had taken on the appearance of a rotting corpse: he was decaying, festering, eroding away, almost right before her eyes. His skin was gray, molding, sagging in some areas and stretched tight in others, and it felt like sandpaper and ice and dough and leather all at once in her hands. His frame was thinner than thin, no more than bones. Patches of hair had begun to fall out; his face was pinched and drawn; his neck seemed flimsy, scarcely able to hold the weight of his head; his eyes hollowed and dead, the skin around them wrinkled and folded so much that the once beautiful obsidian chips of ice were hardly visible.

She'd often thought to herself, back when they'd been living, that Sweeney was no more alive than a corpse, her own little joke to keep her going through the more difficult times.

She realized now that she'd had no idea what a corpse actually looked like. She realized now how wrong she had been.

"Leave me," Sweeney repeated, and he jerked away from her again but there was nearly no force in the movement.

"Sweeney – Mr. Todd – love – you look like a corpse – "

His eyes, darting between she and Johanna, rested upon her again. "What does it matter? I can't feel it."

She couldn't tell if he was lying to her or if, after being here so long, this was the new normal for him, and he didn't remember what it felt like to be strong. To be healthy. "Because you – you can't go on like this – it's – look at you, Mr. Todd."

She took one of her hands from his face and reached down to entwine their fingers together, then held their laced fingers in front of his eyes. He stared at his hand – or what had become of it, at least: a gray, fermenting lump. He seemed surprised, as though he had not realized what he looked like until now.

Fighting the sting in her eyes, Nellie croaked, "See? See what you've become? You may have found Johanna, love, but you've lost yourself."

xxx

Sweeney shook his head and shifted his gaze back to his daughter. She didn't understand. What did it matter what he looked like? What did it matter at all, so long as Johanna was his again? So long as he could watch her, day after day, as he had been doing for however long now. . . .

They'd settled into a routine, the three of them: waking up at six, breakfasting at seven (or eight, if it was Sunday), and then on the weekdays he would follow Johanna to her job, basking in her light as she sewed dresses or helped customers. Then they would return home together, Anthony usually arriving shortly after, and the rest of the day was passed in quiet comfort, cooking dinner, reading, playing cards, and suchlike, before bed. On Sundays, they would all go to the park together, or sometimes out shopping or to a play.

It wasn't glamorous – but it was _home_. And he'd be damned if he was going to give it all up just because of his gray skin and fatigued muscles.

xxx

"Please, love, listen to me," said Nellie, dropping her hands from his face to his shoulders. He was not looking at her, was looking at Johanna, as though he could not bear to be parted with her for even an instant. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. You're sick. You're wasting away. And if you keep wasting away, you might just waste away into nothing – don't scoff – " (he hadn't, she was just rambling) " – 'cause it's very possible, according to Grey . . . Grey, he's Eloise's father, apparently you met her when you were looking for – when you were wandering 'round the Is halls . . . anyway, he says that souls who do as you do – who stay on Earth day in and day out watching the living – they eventually just disappear. The dead aren't meant to be among the living."

How she wished more than ever to get through to him, to make him listen to something that she said, for both of their sakes.

"This is no life, Mr. Todd. I know that we're not alive anymore, but we can still – do things . . . experience. . . ."

_Experience what, Lovett? There is no goal here. No ultimate purpose. It will always just be more of this. _

"This isn't how to you want to be, my love," she said, lying to him, lying to herself. Needing them both to believe this.

Because she didn't know much as this moment, but she did know that she didn't want to bumble through this aimless existence without him.

"You may say you don't care what you do anymore – but I know some part of you does. I know some part of you does not want to just watch – I know something in you still wants to _be_."

She might as well have been talking to herself. Sweeney looked as though he could hear her no more than Johanna and Anthony could.

"It's not as though you're making any difference in Johanna's life," Nellie continued to wheedle, so desperate to reach him – to pull him away from this half-existence, to save him before he became lost forever – that a physical ache was blooming in her chest. "She can't even see you, nevermind give you a hug or touch your hand. She doesn't even know you're here."

And she was beginning to wonder if he knew that _she_ was here.

Removing her hands from his shoulders, she swiped angrily at her moist eyes, turning her gaze to the settee. Sleep had claimed Johanna, and she rested prettily against Anthony's side, her head on his shoulder, book still lying open in her lap. Anthony's eyes stayed on his wife for a moment, before easing away from her and scooping her into his arms to carry her upstairs.

The sight of this little gesture of affection – the way the two of them made love look so damn simple – stung as much as it warmed her. After a deep inhale, she turned back to Sweeney, whose eyes followed them up the staircase. When she made contact with him this time, taking his hands, his eyes locked with hers.

"She's happy now," said Nellie.

A long moment. A pregnant stilling of the air. An extended, hallucinated heartbeat.

"Yes." His lips moved slowly, with difficulty, as though it was hard to remember the pattern one's mouth moved in when speaking, as though it was hard to articulate this aloud and finally admit it to himself. "She is." The continuation of this sentence – the words _without me_ –lingered in his eyes, but neither of them said this thought aloud.

When Nellie tugged him away, pulling him towards the ground and back to Is, he did not resist.

xxx

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" questioned Sweeney as Nellie, while glancing around the corridor to make sure no one saw them, opened the door to his room.

She couldn't remember the last time he'd tried to initiate a conversation with her, but masked her surprise. "Yes, love, she is." She steered him towards his bed and settled him upon it. "Absolutely stunning." Pushing on his shoulders, she made him lie down. "Now, you get some sleep, alright? We'll worry about what to do with you and your horrid appearance after you've gotten a bit of rest."

Giving him what little of a smile she could manage to force onto her face, Nellie made to leave – but he reached out and grabbed her hand, holding her there, keeping her with him.

"She has the razors," Sweeney told her, sitting up halfway.

Nellie arched an eyebrow. "_Your_ razors?"

He nodded, his eyes on her yet beyond her. "She took the box from my shop before the authorities cleaned it out. Grabbed the one in the bakehouse too. She has the full set – polishes them nearly daily. Anthony doesn't like that she has them – he doesn't want to dwell on that 'horrible moment of the past' any longer."

Nellie stared at him. She could rarely get two words out of the man on a good day, and now he was rambling on without pause. Clearly, a soul being on Earth rotted more than their body: it fogged their minds, made them somewhat delusional. Intoxicated them on what was no longer theirs.

"She doesn't use them, of course," Sweeney murmured. "But she keeps them."

Dazed, feeling her own mind beginning to fall into a drunken stupor, Nellie shook her head. "Good grief, Mr. Todd. Did you watch them all the bleeding time? Give them any privacy at all?"

"Of course," he mumbled, still looking at her without really looking, and she wondered if he saw her there, saw anyone at all. "I never followed her into the lavatory . . . or the bedroom . . ."

Well. At least the man knew _some_ boundaries, however few. She eased his fingers away from her extremity, shaking her head at him, relief and amusement and love fighting for space in her chest. "Get some sleep, Mr. Todd."

The love, as always, won. That was what had gotten them both into this mess in the first place, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Woohoo, a fast update! Expect the chapters to come a little quicker during the summer months than they have most of the year. =)

Reward my timely update with a review?


	11. Delusions

_I am convinced that it is not the fear of death, of our lives ending that haunts our sleep so much as the fear that as far as the world is concerned, we might as well never have lived. – Harold Kushner_

xxx

"_Get some sleep, Mr. Todd."_

And sleep he did. For circle upon circle, he slept, so deeply that at times she found herself wondering if he had died. Which she knew was stupid. Which she knew wasn't possible.

Still, the worry that she hadn't arrived soon enough – that his soul was soon to vanish completely – festered in her mind, a constant sore in her brain. Circles went by without change in his rotted, wasted appearance.

And no matter how she tried, she could not rouse him from his heavy slumber for even a moment.

She stayed by his side at all times, save for when she would hurry off to the toilet, or fetch him some water or broth (he never woke up and opened his mouth for her to give him these substances, but she kept trying, spooning an occasional swallow into his dry mouth). She did not go to work, nor did she roam the halls. She worried that her disappearance might raise some suspicions. But she could not leave Sweeney unattended, and she couldn't tell anyone what was going on, because she was fairly certain that it would get both her and Sweeney in trouble. Though she'd not had it confirmed to her, Is spirits traveling to Earth for any length of time was not tolerated by the law. The idea of what they would do to Sweeney should they see him in such a wrecked state scared her witless.

So she kept to herself and hoped that no one would notice her absence – and that if they did, they would assume she was merely taking a few circles for herself. She supposed that she didn't have to stay at Sweeney's bedside circle in and circle out – that she could, and had, confided in Grey, and that he would be able to take over for a little while – but felt that this wasn't his problem. Sweeney Todd was her burden: she was the only one who wanted him around (though _why_ she did still flummoxed her), so she should be the one to nurse him back to health.

Or try to, at least.

The dawning of the seventh circle – with Sweeney still not stirring – alarmed Nellie more than the other circles had . . . perhaps because on Earth the number seven signified a week. Is time was not measured in weeks, of course, but even so. He had not roused in seven circles, and she still could not wake him.

The thought that she never _would_ be able to wake him seemed more real than ever.

Trembling, Nellie reached over from the desk chair her rear end had been practically stuck in the past seven circles, and clasped his hands in hers. His fingers were limp and cold. He was not going to vanish on her. He was _not_.

Without realizing what she was doing, she slid from the chair to his bed, leaning her back against the wall and positioning herself so his head rested in her lap. She laid a palm against his cheek and stroked his hair with her other hand, fighting tears. Benjamin Barker had died long ago, but Sweeney Todd still lived, needed to live, please whoever-the-hell-was-up-there, let him live –

_You fool. _Both_ men are dead._

And this was true – but she could not imagine an existence for herself any longer without him by her side, annoying her, angering her, flustering her, soothing her, warming her, the silent and solid presence she had somehow come to depend on departing, leaving her alone. The thought was unbearable – impossible – but not impossible at the same time, which was why she was so terrified . . .

She put a finger against his throat. A pulse. He had a pulse. It was faint, and it was slow, and it was hardly anything to be proud of, but it was there.

And it was fading . . .

She tucked her chin against her chest, sweaty fingers placed against either of his cheeks, cradling his face. An incoherent murmur of pain burbled up her throat, fizzing in her mouth, escaping in wisps from her lips, and – not conscious of it initially – she began to sing.

"_Nothing's gonna harm you . . . not while I'm around . ._ ._"_

The words were broken, had always been broken – she'd never been able to keep such a promise to anyone close to her. Still, she sang on.

"_Nothing's gonna harm you – darling . . . not while I'm around . . ."_

xxx

He was surrounded by smoke. Thick, black torrents of vapor that shrouded him so deeply he could scarcely see a foot ahead, could hardly make out his own outline. Lifting a hand, he attempted to wave some of it away, only succeeding in blowing a puff right up his nose. He coughed.

Gradually, the smoke began to thin, a dark veil rather than an unyielding wall, though he still could not see much of his surroundings. Where was he? He couldn't remember . . . he strained to recall what had happened . . . but all that came to mind was a flash of him holding his razor in his palm, and –

"_Oh, Anthony, it's beautiful!" says Johanna, spinning in a circle, admiring the way the skirts of the new dress swish and billow around her like the sails of her husband's ship. "But what's the occasion?"_

"_Do I need an occasion to buy my wife a gift?" Anthony questions, perplexed, and then smiles. "You look lovely."_

Yes. Johanna. Of course.

But where was she? Cautiously, he took a step forward, and then another, hoping to catch a glimpse of something other than black fog.

Soon he began to make out walls – old walls made of tired planks and peeling wallpaper – and the shape of a room. Eyes squinted against the fumes, Sweeney ventured further. He was hit with the thought that he was back in his barber shop. No, that couldn't be: Johanna lived in Plymouth, miles away from here.

But as he came closer and entered the room, there became no question about it. Somehow, he had ended up back on Fleet Street in what used to be his establishment. The room looked as though nothing had been touched since his death, which struck him as odd: surely by now the police would have figured out his and Lovett's business partnership and done a thorough inspection. Yet all was the same, from the bureau, to the trunk in the corner, to the chair, to his razors

– _my friends –_

He was at their side in an instant. Their case lay open upon the bureau, each one exposed to the cold world, smiling up at him. He had thought he would never be reunited with them again. And yet here they were, sitting, resting, _waiting_.

_("once it bubbles, then what's to do?")_

He reached a trembling hand towards them – then stopped. They were not supposed to be here. They were Johanna's now; they were her friends, not his; he had seen them in her possession with his own eyes. Had Anthony persuaded her to return them to here? Had the authorities become angry with her? Had she merely bought replicas? No, no, those had been his razors – he was sure of it – he would recognize his companions anywhere.

Deciding it did not matter so long as they were together again, he closed the final distance between his hand and the blades, fingertips gracing against cool silver, prickling with delight at the familiar contact. With utmost care, he scooped one into his hand and flicked her open; even through the fog still lingering, his razor caught the light, and she gleamed for him.

"I know I promised that you would sleep evermore," he whispered. "But I couldn't resist. I hope you understand."

She did.

Each of his friends was spotless, entirely free of blood. Who had polished them after his death? The law? Johanna? Anthony? What had ever happened to Tobias, anyway? Not that he_ cared_ – but, well, the fate of one's murderer is often a subject of mild interest. Maybe the boy had cleaned them?

Not that it mattered. They were together again, and that was the important issue. Striding to the middle of the room, he relaxed into his barber chair (careful, as always, to not accidentally trigger the lever leading to the bakehouse). Absently, he watched the friend in his palm, sifting her between his fingers as filtered rays of sun danced against her surface

"_Why don't you put them away?"_

_Johanna casts him a glance. "Anthony, I thought you said you weren't going to say anything further about this."_

"_About keeping them, yes," Anthony agrees. "But leaving them out all the time as you do, always resting upon your nightstand? And then polishing them every few weeks? Johanna – " he takes her hand " – what you saw that night – the horror of watching two people killed in such a gruesome manner – I don't pretend to understand what it's like to witness that. But surely continually reminding yourself of the event – well, it's not going to help you move on. It's not going to help you forget."_

"_I don't want to forget, Anthony," she says. "Move on, yes . . . but not forget. I'll never forget. I can't. It wouldn't be fair – to me or to them."_

and threw beams of light all along the walls and across the floor, but the sun outside his window was beginning to fade, the light dimming. A breeze blew across his face . . . which was odd, considering no windows were open. Ignoring it, he resumed contemplating the razor, enjoying her company – but then the breeze brushed against him again, running along his jaw, almost like the phantom hands of a lover . . .

_Lucy – _

He whirled his head around only to discover what he already knew: he was alone. Lucy, as always, was only in his mind. He turned around and slumped in the chair, closing his eyes, her nonexistent hands still brushing against his face. Except – Lucy's nails had not been so long – nor her fingers so spindly – nor her skin so callused –

"_Get away from me, woman,"_ he snarled, but of course _she_ was not there either, merely a cruel trick of his mind, so his words had absolutely no effect. He was not sure who he hated more in that moment: her, or himself.

Fist clenching around his friend, he glared out the window. Night was starting to descend, stars appearing; the moon

_("on a string")_

was nearly full, missing only a tiny sliver from one side

"_I wonder if there really is a man up there?" Johanna ponders, dazzling in the moonlight. She tilts her head up to the sky, eyes upon the luminescent orb hanging there. "How do such stories even begin, anyway?"_

"_The same way as all others, I suppose," says Anthony, looping an arm over her shoulders. "Someone tells it."_

and now there was a disembodied voice to accompany the disembodied hands, a voice close to his ears, singing. The words were soft, and muffled, as though the singer had a cloth pressed over their mouth. But soon the words became clearer, louder . . .

"_Nothing's gonna harm you . . . not while I'm around . . ."_

"Well, that's a relief to know, isn't it?" he asked his friend. She made no reply, knowing as well as he did that the words came far too late, but not quite as willing to divulge a sarcastic remark in return. He could not distinguish the owner of the voice, for it was rather smothered, nor could he recognize the tune, however distantly familiar both seemed.

"_Nothing's gonna harm you . . ."_

The tendrils of inky vapor still hovering in the room began to move, joining together, thickening, swirling in dizzying patterns. Confused, forming a tight fist around his razor, Sweeney stood, backing slowly away from the fumes. He turned around to head for the door – only to realize that the fog was closing in on him from all sides.

" _. . . darling . . ."_

The smoke was different than last time; before, it had hovered, thick and steady as cement – now it was nearly as impenetrable, but it was also revolving around itself in thousands of small tornadoes, making it seem crueler, angrier, almost as if it meant to smother him –

" _. . . not while I'm around . . ."_

Waves of the stuff squeezed up his nose and into his mouth, making him cough. Was all this from a fire? He should try to get out before he suffocated.

_Don't be stupid – you're already dead._

But from the way his throat was coughing, his body convulsing, it sure didn't seem that way. . . . He dropped down to the floor, friend still in hand, and began to crawl in the direction he believed the door to be in. The smoke continued to twirl and condense as he went, making the task near impossible.

And then a new thought occurred: why was he bothering? Why was he fighting to try and exist? Didn't he want to escape this pathetic existence, this so-called life? Hadn't he had enough?

_What about Johanna?_

What about her, though? She – and the thought hurt more than any razor ever could, but that didn't lessen its truth – didn't need him anymore. He was no use to her like this.

_("Life is for the alive, my dear.")_

The smoke closed in so tight around him that he could not see anything, not hear anything, but he could smell the horrid fumes and taste their bitterness as his throat hacked against them, and he could still feel his razor in his hand, his beautiful razor, his loyal friend . . .

"_Demons'll charm you with a smile . . . for a while . . ."_

"But I _am_ the demon," he snarled at the voice that was not there, despite that it sent a fresh wave of coughs spluttering through his already-wracking body. He smiled then, sardonically, satanically, deliriously. "How can you expect to save me from myself?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth did he find himself paying the price for his brief speech: the coughs felt as though they were being ripped from his throat, one after the other, barely giving him an instant to breathe –

" _. . . but in time . . ."_

And then the smoke was fading, and he was falling, or flying, or maybe there was no difference between the two, and the world was nothing but a blot of dimmed colors and faded lights, and everything was disappearing expect the hands on his face were becoming more solid, and the crooning voice was growing louder.

"_. . . nothing's gonna harm you . . ."_

And then the only thing he could see was_ her_, but he supposed that was fitting, for he could not escape her, it was always her in the end: his perverse voice of reason, his distorted guardian angel, his devil, always lurking in the dark corner beside his or looming above him as she did now. Her hands, her voice, her everything. He could damn her, he supposed, but there was no point to that. They were both damned. Or not damned, considering they weren't in hell. Why weren't they in hell, fiends like them?

It was now that he remembered why he had thrown her into the oven and not cut her throat. A slice upon the neck was simply not appropriate for her. But fire suited her: she had been nicknamed the Devil's wife by those who disliked her, after all, and what better way for the wife of Satan to pass into the next world than through flames? It suited her to die by her oven, just as it had suited him to die by his razor. They had died by what defined them.

Too, he had wanted her death to be distinguished, different from the rest, for she was different, and it infuriated him to no end how different she was, how strange and peculiar, and that she had betrayed him –

Some part of him knew that he was deluded, or drunk, or something; that his thoughts were not traveling linearly or sensefully and hadn't been since he arrived at his barber shop – how had he gotten there, anyway? and how had he left? – and the other part of him did not care, too preoccupied with his various contemplations.

" . . . _not while I'm_ – GOD IN HEAVEN!"

Mrs. Lovett, apparently taken by surprise at seeing his eyes open, jumped back with a shriek; he winced as her legs, which his head must have been resting upon, twisted, shoving against his already- painful skull.

"Still believe there's someone up there, do you?" he tried to ask derisively, but his mouth was parched, his lips thick and heavy; it came out sounding more like, "Sill ehhuheve hare hunun uhphh aere, goo ouo?"

"Hush," said Lovett, and before he knew what was happening she was bringing a spoon of water to his lips, lifting his head up so he wouldn't choke on it. He drank it down urgently, as with the next dozen or so.

"Slow down," she finally said, putting the spoon down despite his protests, lowering his head back to her lap, "or you'll give yourself a stomachache, after hardly eating and drinking nothing for so long. How're you feeling?"

A "fine" was all he managed to choke out. He glanced around the room, brow furrowing. "Where – am I?"

"Your room. As you've been for the past seven circles, mind you."

Circles . . . so they were back on Is. So the black smoke, the barber shop, his friends – all of that had been a mirage. He supposed he would have realized that if he'd been analyzing the situation, seeing as it had been nothing short of bizarre and improbable. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to sit in his chair or touch his razors if they'd been real. Spirits couldn't touch anything on Earth.

He could feel her eyes scrutinizing him, and turned his stare towards her, where she still hovered above him. "Mind if I – sit upright?" he asked.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Todd. You've been terribly ill and a relapse is the very last thing you need right now, seeing as how close you were to – " a hesitation " – to getting even worse." She bit the inside of her lower lip, making it seem smaller than her upper one. "You – you do remember what happened, don't you?"

Johanna. Watching over Johanna. Living with Johanna for weeks on end. Lovett. Lovett, interfering as she always did. Lovett, disrupting the beautiful dream his existence had become.

Lovett, saving his life . . . or lack, thereof.

Yes. Yes, he remembered. He nodded.

Her eyes crinkled. "And you're not – mad at me?"

How could he be mad at her? He wanted to be mad at her – wanted to add another reason to hate the vile little she-devil huddled over him – but he couldn't summon the energy.

Because she had been right: Johanna didn't need him. Johanna was happy without him.

"No," he said.

She continued to squint at him for a moment, dubious, then her wrinkles smoothed, gaze softening. "I'm sorry, love."

He didn't need her pity. He didn't need her help, either. It was because of her that he was still here, after all – it was because of her that he had lost the chance to finally end his existence – but, of course, she had stolen this from him too, just as she had stolen everything else –

_Don't blame this on her. You're the one who dived to the floor when the smoke thickened. You're the one who wanted to live._

Live? He barely repressed a snort. No, he had not wanted to live; flattening himself upon the floor had been an animal gesture, the natural instinct to survive at all costs, nothing more. The verb _to live_ was no longer one that he could achieve. That was why he wanted to escape this place.

"Are you hungry?" Mrs. Lovett asked, breaking into his thoughts. "You still look sicker than a dog, but you don't look quite so peaky as you did before, so we could probably chance you sitting up. And you haven't eaten in quite some time, so it might do you a lot of good."

As she babbled, she eased him up into a sitting position next to her, the pair of them leaning against the wall. "I managed to get a bit of water or broth down your throat every now and then, but I was afraid to try something more solid seeing as you probably would've choked on it. I don't have anything ready, but I could go fix you something right quick, if – "

"You look pale," Sweeney told her.

Lovett gave him a quizzical look accompanied with an arch of one eyebrow. "Seen a mirror lately, love?"

"You're paler than normal."

It wasn't just her pale complexion that was abnormal. The faint wrinkles on her face were more pronounced than usual, her features weary and drawn, dark pouches dangling under her eyes. She looked as though she hadn't had a proper meal or sleep in quite some time . . . as though, while tending to him, she'd forgotten to care for herself.

"'S'not proper for a lady to get browned by the sun," Mrs. Lovett retorted. "Not that there's much of that 'round here anyway."

Why was she pretending that she was fine? Bloody infuriating woman.

"You're _too pale_," he affirmed, glowering at her.

She rolled her eyes as she slide off the bed. "And you're half-delirious. What should I fix up? How's soup sound to you?" When his glare did not lessen, she added, "I'll make enough for both of us – will that make you happy, you big grump?"

Sullenly, he nodded.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** You guys. WOW. I'm absolutely blown away by the number of reviews I received on the last chapter! Thirteen reviews for a single chapter that didn't have any smut and for a fandom that is slowly dying? That is unheard of. xD

No, but in all seriousness. Y'all rock.

Please keep your beloved starving authoress happy and continue to leave feedback, whether good or bad?


	12. And None Of Their Souls Were Saved

_Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd. – Voltaire_

xxx

"Nellie!" Lorraine Mathers, one of her shop's regulars, exclaimed. She rushed forward and threw her arms around the baker. "Where on _Is_ have you been, darling?"

"Oh, just taking some time off," was Nellie's airy reply. She liked Lorraine, though her accent sometimes got on her nerves ("you British still hate everything about us Americans, then?" Lorraine had said with a laugh when Nellie had confessed to the reason behind her occasional wincing while they chatted. "I'm sorry, Nellie, but this is just how we all talked on the plantation, and even after fifty-odd years of being dead, I can't kick the habit.")

"Now, if you don't mind, dearie," continued Nellie, "your sleeve's about to get in this batter I'm mixing up . . ."

Lorraine laughed and removed herself from the other woman. "Sorry. But I was starting to get worried about you. And my husband and I were getting hungry!"

"Surely I'm not the only place you get food at?"

"Of course not, but you're the best." Nellie couldn't help but glow. "I'll be having my usual slice of apple pie and cup of ale, by the way."

"Soon as I finish up with these cookies, it'll be on the way," Nellie informed her. Lorraine beamed, squeezed Nellie's wrist, and fluttered off.

After her shop had closed down for the night, Nellie fixed up some vegetable lasagna for her and Sweeney's dinner, and then bustled over to his room, somehow managing to get the door open even with her hands full of food and ale.

"How're you doing, love?" she asked, setting their dinner down on his desk.

He didn't reply. She grinned down at the plates as she began to dish his portion of the food upon it, then handed it to him with a probing glance. "You look better than you did yesterday. Bit less moldy, at least. Did you eat the lunch I left for you? And drink all that water? Drinking lots of fluids always helps cure sickness. I was thinking of taking a day off tomorrow and making sure that you're taking proper care of yourself and not just dumping your food down the toilet when I've got my back turned – "

"Mrs. Lovett," Sweeney rumbled in a low voice, not stirring from where he lay, half-propped up, on his bed. "I can barely _walk_ to the toilets, nevermind carry your mountains of food along with me each time I do so."

She huffed as she sat down at the end of his bed with her own dinner. "Well, no need to be ungrateful about it."

They began to eat then, he staring off at nothing, she studying him. He _did_ look better than he had when she found him on Earth, although he was still hardly in any fit state to go out in public. The gray in his skin had lessened, the sags in his skin were smoothing, the deterioration was not as pronounced. He looked like a corpse that had been dead for several years rather than several hundred. But progress was progress, and she was certainly not going to complain. Far from it. She was just happy to have him on the road to recovery.

And, God, was she thankful. Well, not thankful to God. _He_ certainly hadn't done a thing to nurse Sweeney back to health. That had been all her, and she wasn't about to give credit where credit wasn't due.

"Oh, c'mon now, Mr. Todd, eat all your food," she cajoled her barber, glancing down at his half-eaten, abandoned plate. "How d'you expect to get strong and healthy again if you're not feeding yourself properly?"

One of his eyebrows lifted in amusement. "I'll live."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's not funny, Mr. T. You were very close to disappearing forever more, you do realize that, don't you? Now eat, you fool."

She managed to chastise him into taking several more bites, but eventually gave it up as a lost cause. "How 'bout I run over to my shop and get us some leftover chocolate cake for dessert, hmm?"

Predictably, Sweeney shook his head.

"Fine, fine," Nellie sighed, gathering the half-consumed dinner plates in her hands and rising to her feet, "I'll take the hint, I'll leave. See you tomorrow at maize for breakfast, Mr. Todd." Torn between her usual annoyance and affection, she left, not carrying that the door _bang_ed as it shut behind her.

"Hello, Mrs. Lovett."

Nellie jumped. "Eloise! Goodness – gave me a start, you did. Isn't it past your curfew?"

Eloise popped a candy from a small sack into her mouth, lips puckering as she sucked on it. "Daddy said it was alright just this once – I wanted to see how Mr. Todd was doing. I know you told us a few circles ago he was back. D'you think I could go see him?"

"I – I don't know, love. He's feeling better, but he's far from being in top shape . . . maybe you should wait a few more circles."

Eloise looked disappointed, but nodded. "Okay. Tell him I said hello though, won't you?"

"Of course, darling."

She smiled. "Good night, Mrs. Lovett. Oh – sorry – I'm being very rude – " she held her bag of candy out towards Nellie " – would you like a toffee?"

"_That's Signor Pirelli's purse!" he yelps, eyes widening._

_Her heart is jumping around wildly, her brain shooting off thoughts faster than she can keep up with them, but all she does is look at him patiently. "No, it's not. It's just something Mr. T gave me for my birthday."_

_He shakes his head, manic, hardly hearing her, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the door. "That proves it! We've got to go, mum, we've got to find"_

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Sorry, dear," said Nellie with a light, tinkling laugh far unlike her own, "forgot where I was for a moment there! No, no, I'm fine, I don't need a toffee, all that sugar from my bakery is quite enough for any woman – thank you though," she babbled anxiously. "Well, I'll see you around, Eloise – " and marched straight across to her own room before she could see the girl's reaction to her bizarre behavior.

_Get control of yourself, Nellie,_ she berated, quivering as she sat down on her bed. _ Dwelling in the past isn't going to get you anywhere, remember? Just have to move on._

She had been haunted by thoughts and memories of Toby even more than usual ever since she had returned to Earth. Before, she had been bothered by what she had done to him, concerned over what had become of him – but there had been nothing she could do about it, so had (for the most part) put it all behind her. But now . . . _now_ . . . well, now that she knew there was a way for spirits to go down to Earth, surely she should just go down there and look –

She shook herself. She was being ridiculous. She'd seen what happened first-hand to souls who mingled with the living. Did she want to end up in as bad shape as Sweeney had been? Or worse?

_You wouldn't have to stay there as long as he did . . . you know better than that . . . just a quick visit would be all it took, just to see how's he doing, and then come right back . . ._

But what if she didn't have that much control? What if, after finding Toby, she was compelled to stay with him for more than a day, until her intended one day had become two and then three and then a week and then a month and maybe more? She wanted to believe that she had more sense than that, but knew that she didn't. Her heart didn't, at least; as she had learned, she couldn't trust it to make logical decisions.

Besides, Sweeney was still ill. She couldn't leave him in the state he was in.

She was going to stay here.

xxx

_He does not know what to think of the woman. He cannot put into words what emotions he feels towards her. And this frustrates him to no end, makes him want to grasp her by the throat each time she tinkles the bell on her way into his shop, to slam her into his barber's chair and cut her throat and be done with her. _

_But he never does._

_She's done something to him, threaded each of her words and movements and kisses with an opium of intrigue, of need, of – _

No.

_And he hates her for it – for forcing him to recognize that this crushed thing he sarcastically calls a heart still beats, still requires, still feels._

_He hates the way she is constantly chattering in his ear even when she has nothing of importance to say. He hates the way she is always pressing against him, touching him. He hates the way she is not pretty, never pretty, and yet smirks and dances and dresses as though she is. He hates the way she whorishly bends over to showcase her chest and arse. He hates the way she insists upon dragging him out of his shop every once in a while 'for a bit of a fresh breeze,' or 'to be a teensy-bit social,' or 'because you'll suffocate yourself in this stale air one day.' He hates the way she forces him to eat, to sleep; surely she's figured out by now that demons do not require such base needs._

_He hates the way she looks at him with such unconditional devotion._

_He hates the way she understands him without he even saying a word._

_He hates the way she makes him feel anything other than rage and hate and pain, that she can break into his darkness and let his skin again know light –_

_No. His wife was his light. He has no light now. His wife, his wife, her beautiful name means light, and the light died when she did – _

_Her_ name means light too.

_He cuts that thought away with a snarl. No. Demons do not know light's caress. And she is no more innocent than he; one does not have to be a murderer to have their souls stained with sins and aches. The meaning behind her name is pure irony, just as so much of their lives have become –_

"Why didn't you tell me that you were well enough to leave your room and walk around for longer than just a single trip to the washroom?" Mrs. Lovett demanded to know.

Sweeney, distracted, glanced up. Didn't the woman ever knock? "Do I need to consult you on my every action?"

"No," she expelled, irritated. "But a bit of notice would've been nice, dear. And are you really sure that you're fit to be moving about? You still look a bit peaky, and your skin's still rather wrinkled and gray . . . I mean, 's'not bad enough to catch the eye of Barsid or any of them – well, I hope it's not . . . we could probably just pass it off as food poisoning or some suchlike if anyone does say anything to you about it. Still, I don't know if it's wise for you to be out of bed so soon – "

"Fifteen circles."

"'S'cuse me?"

"It's been fifteen circles since I left my bed for more than the lavatories."

"It doesn't matter how much time has elapsed," said Lovett in the tone of one speaking to a young child. "What _matters _is how you feel, and if you're about to set yourself up for a relapse."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Lovett."

"Yes, right, I'm sure. So, what else've you been going around and doing without my knowledge?"

Her tone was buoyant, lightly accusatory of nothing in particular, but her narrowed eyes revealed that her words were anything but.

"Only the usual," he demurred.

"Still trying to find Lucy's room?" she asked, too casually.

"Yes." There was no point to lying; the both of them could punch holes with ease through the other's fabrications by now. He had been searching more vigilantly for Lucy's room than ever, in fact, wandering the netherlands in addition to trying to find Lucy's room on Is. For surely, if there was a passageway to Earth in the nethers, then it followed there would be one to another realm of the afterlife – to Lucy's, wherever she might be. . . . He was not foolish; he remembered George's words about needing to watch his footing in the netherlands, lest he wind up endangering himself, but that did not mean he could not look. His hunts had yielded no finds as of yet . . . but Sweeney Todd was far from finished.

Lovett shook her head. "Now, Mr. T, look, eventually you've got to face facts: Lucy isn't on Is and never will be. Your dream is never going to be reality."

"And you honestly believed your dream would be reality?" he could not help shooting back.

Her face went slack, as though her muscles could no longer carry the burden of supporting any facial expression. "No," she whispered. "No, I didn't. But without believing it would be – I had nothing."

He inclined his head, eyes dark upon hers as they silently replied: _Exactly, pet._

With a shake of her head as if to clear it, she jerked her spine tall and quirked her lips. She strolled over to him, peering over his shoulder at the desk he sat at. "So, what're you – oooh, Mr. Todd, it's lovely!"

"No, it's not," he grumbled.

"Don't be daft, of course it is," she returned gaily. "Whatever motivated you to try and draw? Oh! You're starting a shop, ain't you? Opening up your own business – an art gallery, hmm? That's wonderful, Mr. T, just splendid. Are you experimenting with all different mediums, or have you settled on pencils and sketchpads? And – hold on, does this mean you're not working for me anymore? Now, really, love, a little notification would've been nice. Granted, you haven't been into the shop in who knows how many circles, but even so, it's the polite thing to – "

He clenched his teeth. _"Mrs. Lovett."_

"Oh, what now, you great fusspot?"

"I'm not going to open any sort of art gallery or shop if I can't create anything halfway decent."

"But Mr. Todd, that sketch – well, what you have of it so far, at least – I'm assuming you still need to add the branches to that poor naked tree – it's very good, love."

Sweeney scowled down at his paper. He had been starting to go out of his mind with boredom with lying in bed circle after circle, and it had finally occurred to him that, once he recovered, he would need a job (as he doubted Lovett really wanted him to return). The perplexing matter of 'what to do' swirled around in his mind, but no feasible solutions were delivered. Eventually some of Lovett's former words began to twirl in his mind . . .

"_You were always a great artist with your razors. Maybe that artistic flair would transfer to another craft."_

He doubted this would be true but, as nothing better had dawned upon him, decided to go along with the idea, at least for now. Which was why he now sat in the room available for his future business, a sketchpad on his desk and a pencil between his fingers, trying to bring out his 'artistic flair.' Though so far, it seemed he had none. He thought he should start simple and work up from there, and that was the reason he was attempting to draw a tree. It looked like no tree he had ever seen, though – at best it looked like a deformed piece of spaghetti (and even _that _was generous) – which was why Mrs. Lovett's mocking comments grated on his nerves.

"Really, dear, you're just too hard on yourself," Lovett was saying now. "You are your own worst critic, y'know. Besides, you look a lot bloody happier than you did while working in my shop. Give it time, and you'll be a professional, I'm sure of it. You can't rush art, after all. I s'pose this means I'll have to look for someone else to help me out in my shop – I can hardly crawl to my room each night, what with running around all circle right, left, and center – but I'm sure there's someone who'd like to help – "

She broke off. Sweeney, though he had not been listening to her words, noticed the abrupt absence of her voice, and canted his head. The woman hardly ever stopped in the middle of her blathering unless someone interrupted her, but he had not heard another voice. Had someone else entered the room? Pulling his chair away from the desk, he turned it around so he could see the rest of the room – but they were quite alone.

"Oh, love," Lovett sighed, her tone now forlorn, as she knelt on the ground. She toyed with the sleeve of her robe before stilling her hands and pressing them against her knees, looking up at him. "So what happens now?"

Sweeney had no earthly notion what she was talking about.

"What I mean to say is . . ." Lovett started to clarify, and then faltered. "What are you living – well, existing for?"

His brow creased.

"Not that I'm not pleased to see you out and about and trying new things and whatnot," Lovett amended with haste, "'cause I am, love, I am. It's just . . . I'm just wondering what your goal is, is all. What you want now."

It was the exact question he had been trying to answer ever since scampering away from his delusional state. Once his wants had been clear. Once he had taken it upon himself to avenge his family, helping to rid the world of the other vile creatures who inhabited it in the meantime.

Once he had had a purpose.

His family had been avenged. Lucy was dead and he could not reach her, at least not yet. Johanna was alive and he could not affect her. And he had come to terms with all of this during his bedridden circles, when he had been confined to little movement and endless thoughts. It still upset him deeply – certainly – but he had accepted that there was nothing more to be done.

He had also come to terms with the fact that – whatever he had thought before, whatever he might have liked to pretend – he did still want to survive.

"Mr. Todd?"

"I . . . I don't know what I want, Mrs. Lovett."

Admitting it aloud – and to _her_, of all people – was more difficult than when he had been forced to acknowledge it to himself some circles ago. He was bumbling through his existence, trying to find a motivation, a want, something – anything. Because he did not know what more to do.

She exhaled, folding herself into a sitting position on the floor. "I don't know what I want anymore either, love. 'S'not a pleasant feeling. But eventually we'll find our directions again, hmm? 'Til then, we've just got to get by."

_("maybe not like I dreamed, and maybe not like you remember")_

"Well," said Mrs. Lovett, giving herself a slight shake before rising to her feet, "I should get back to the shop, seeing as my lunch break's very nearly over. I'll see you around, love."

She put her hand on his shoulder then – a movement once common of her, always touching him, always kissing him, always moving as close as possible until he inevitably pushed her away – but it was the first intimate gesture from her since they had died. It took them both by surprise. Her cheeks colored, and before he could say anything (not that he had anything in mind _to_ say), she drew the hand back and disappeared through the wall.

xxx

"Good lord. Are you really all here 'cause you want to work for me?"

Seeing as Sweeney no longer was going to work at _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_, Nellie had decided that she would be needing an extra set of hands (maybe two extra sets, with the way business was going) around the shop. Earlier that circle, she'd hung a sign reading 'Now hiring – see Mrs. Lovett in here at magenta if interested' upon her door. She hoped that at least one or two spirits would show up.

She had not expected to be faced with a dozen souls at the appointed time, all sitting at her tables and looking up at her expectantly, nodding in response to her question.

"Well, I can't very well hire all of you," Nellie declared. "I need only one or two to help out – three at most, if my income can handle it. And – no offense, loves – " she cast a wary eye around at the assembled group " – but none of you look any older than twenty." If even that. "Now, I've got nothing against hiring young souls, but you should know that I work long chords, rarely take circles off, and . . ."

"If I may interject, madam," one of the souls, a boy of perhaps seventeen years, said. There was a distinctly aristocratic look to him – the dark hair and eyes, the facial structure of all angles and no curves, the impeccable posture as he sat in his chair – and she would have been surprised if had not been from a family of considerable wealth. She couldn't identify his accent; she'd gotten better at it, since arriving upon Is, but there were simply too many for her to recognize them all. She guessed somewhere in eastern Europe.

"Yes?" she said.

"There isn't much for children to do on Is," said the boy. "There are no work restrictions for children, but most adults do not take young people – people who died young and thus still appear it, I mean to say – seriously.

"And the Is school" – she'd had no idea they even had school here; apparently there was a lot more to being dead than she'd ever thought – "is a bit of a joke. Well, it functions decently, but since there are continually new students arriving, they're either much farther ahead than the rest of the pupils, or incredibly behind. The teacher is then never certain whether to move forward in the curriculum or move several lessons back. It results in some tedious classes."

"So in short, you're only here in my shop 'cause you're bored," Nellie concluded. "Well, that's downright flattering, that is."

"I want to work here because your pies are delicious," a small red-headed girl contributed, beaming.

"Me too," said Eloise Gardner; Nellie raised her eyebrows at the girl as she noticed her for the first time, but Eloise only smiled.

"I want to work here because I need some extra talent for a new toy soldier," a boy who couldn't have been more than five chimed in.

"Alright, alright." Nellie held up her hands for silence. "Look. I'm charmed that so many of you want to work here. But I simply can't hire all of you – and, I'm sorry dears, but some of you are far too young for this job. I – alright, raise your hand if you're over ten years old."

"What if we _are_ ten years old?" Eloise asked.

"Yes, yes, fine," said Nellie wearily.

"Do you mean how old we were when we died?" the red-haired girl questioned. "Or how old we are now?"

Wincing at the bluntness in the child's tone, Nellie replied, "Erm, the age you were when you died, darling." The red-haired girl's face fell. Nellie watched as only two of the assembled spirits lifted their arms into the air. "Alright, those of you who don't have your hands raised – I'm sorry, but I just don't think you'd be able to work here, loves, so I've got to ask you to leave."

Muttering under their breath what were no doubt insults and child-tempered swearwords directed at her, the younger of the kids left, leaving Eloise and the aristocratic boy.

Nellie stretched her mouth in what she hoped was a smile. "Well, congratulations, loves. Looks like you two just got hired." They both grinned at her. Nellie's eyes settled on Eloise. "I already know you, so no need for introductions there – " her gaze shifted to the boy " – but I don't believe we've been acquainted. What's your name, son?"

The boy confirmed her thoughts about his being brought up as a proper gentleman: he rose to his feet, strode over to her, and shook her hand. "My name is Anatoly Gorlovich."

"Pleasure to meet you, Anatoly." Nellie glanced at the clock. "Well, I don't mean to be rude, dears, but it's getting late. Can I expect to see you both in here at yellow tomorrow? Unless – what time is school here?"

"All the classes are at different times," Eloise informed her. "Souls under twenty are required to attend at least two every other circle of their choice. I've been on Is for a really long time, so I know almost _everything_ they teach." Anatoly hid a smile in his shoulder at this. "But right now I'm attending a class that teaches us how to speak and write in Chinese, and a class about biology, although it's kind of pointless seeing as animals don't have souls so we can't actually see an animal unless we go to Earth which of course" – she shot Nellie a significant look – "is not acceptable. Anyway, each of my classes runs a chord and a half, so I'm busy each day from lime to jade."

"I see," said Nellie, turning to Anatoly. "And you?"

"I'll be out from cyan to indigo every other circle."

"And those times don't clash with each other at all," Nellie reflected to herself. "Perfect. So, until tomorrow, loves."

Anatoly shook her hand again, Eloise gave her a hug, and then they left. Nellie poked a look at the clock once more: half past magenta. She should fix up supper and then check in on Sweeney. Bustling towards the kitchen, she debated what meatless-dish to make tonight. Maybe eggplant parmesan? Zucchini casserole? Bean soup? Eggplant, she decided, and began pulling out the necessary ingredients and kitchen tools, accidentally dropping a pot as she pulled things out from the cupboards. She swore as the pot skittered across the counter and slid right off, smacking her hard in the stomach before landing on her feet. Cringing, she picked up the pot and rubbed her wounded abdomen. _Maybe this is what being pregnant feels like._ She wouldn't have known. She'd never been able to carry a child more than a few months.

Her eyes scrunched. On the subject of movement around her middle . . . what had ever happened to that tugging string she had felt on Earth? That intangible rope that had pulled her to Sweeney? After leading her to the barber, she had not felt it since, not at all.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. She needed a break from all this endless thinking. Perhaps she would go shopping after dinner. That would be a good distraction. Decided, Nellie set to work making eggplant parmesan, managing to prevent further accidents by forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Brought you some dinner, Mr. T," she announced as she entered his shop. Her eyes were met with papers littering the floor, paint cans stacked in a corner, pencils and paintbrushes scattered in mounds against the ground, an easel laying on its side in the middle of the room, and a glob of paint beside it – which her former tenant was currently trying to mop up. "Still struggling to find a craft, love?"

Sweeney grunted.

"It'll come to you eventually, don't worry," Nellie comforted him, setting their dinner on an empty desk. "You've just got to stick with something, that's all. Can't expect to be brilliant at something on your first try. I remember way back when you were still learning how to be a bar – "

No. Mentioning the past was not allowed between them. Not unless she wanted to shatter what little companionship had been fostered between them since he had returned from Earth.

" – when you were still learning how – how to fill up the customers' mugs at my shop! Don't you recall? You used to pour them far too much ale, almost past the rim – they'd be tipsy before they'd even had a second glass!"

Finished wiping up the paint stain, Sweeney rose to his feet, giving her a look as he did so that said plainly he knew that was _not_ what she had originally intended to say.

Nellie busied herself with dividing up the eggplant. "Anyway. Can I interest you in some food?" Without waiting for his reply, she marched over to him and put the loaded plate into his hands, skin tingling as their fingers brushed.

As per the routine they had developed these past few circles, they sat down at the small circular table near the far wall to dine. Sweeney began to cut up his food.

"I hired two new souls to help 'round my shop today, by the way. Your little friend Eloise – when are you going to let that girl see you again, anyway? I'm not going to keep telling her you're ill and sending her away when you're clearly just fine. And also a teenage boy. Seeing as you seem occupied with your art and all."

She began to dig into her own eggplant. "Anyway, I don't know if any shops stay open into the evening, but I was thinking of going and having a poke around some of the businesses tonight. D'you want to come? I've decided that I want to buy some nice décor – wallpaper, rugs, maybe some interesting knick-knacks. I've noticed that some other souls've got their shops all nice and dandied up, and I want to do the same, because most of this place, the halls and authorities' rooms . . . 's'all so bare. And gray. No color or life or anything. It's like a bloody tomb."

At that, Sweeney shot her a look, raising his eyebrows, seeming undecided between disbelief and amusement. The fact that he had been listening at all surprised her. Sometimes Nellie became so used to talking to Sweeney while receiving no response that she began to think he never listened to her. So when he would suddenly contribute a thought of his own – or even so much as glance at her – it would always startle her. The man may not have always listened, but he somehow managed to gather most of the words that fell from her mouth. As proven when he would suddenly echo them to her, pulling her in for a dance . . . but no, she was to think on such matters no longer.

_What's dead is dead_.

And that included them.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** My dear readers. You continue to outstrip all of my expectations for hits and reviews for this story! Thank you so much. You have no idea how amazing and surreal it is to have this story (aka my little monster and my little baby), which until last year only about four people knew about, finally out in the real world. I'm just delighted that so many people like my baby! And terrified that my baby's about to get run over by a bus, picked on by the school bully, trampled by a horse, gone to sea again, etc. But I suppose all new mothers are, LOL.

Anyway, I know this chapter wasn't quite as eventful as the subsequent few, but I figured that we could all use a bit of a breather. Besides, things are going to become quite eventful again next chapter . . . though not exactly in a way that Sweeney and Nellie find, erm, enjoyable . . . -cue foreboding music-

Reviews are love.


	13. Unwhet Appetites

_In heaven, all the interesting people are missing. – Friedrich Nietzsche_

xxx

"How many days?" Sweeney Todd demanded.

Reyna peered up at him from over her reading glasses, her hands filled with long sheets of parchment. "Good morning, Mr. Barker."

"Todd."

"It's been quite some time since you've stopped by," Reyna continued, as though he had not interrupted.

"How many days?" he asked again. He stalked from the doorway and over to the Earth calendar mounted upon her wall, squinting at it, but he might as well have tried to read Arabic: the countless initials, numbers, and squiggles printed all over meant nothing.

"I hoped that you'd perhaps decided you no longer cared about our bargain," Reyna went on from behind him, not getting up from her desk. "That you no longer wished to end your existence."

"I'm quite good at crushing hopes," Sweeney sneered.

"Not mine," she said quietly, but not quietly enough to avoid his ears.

He twisted his head over his shoulder, patience waning. "How many days?"

Reyna Lovett took off her glasses, stretched to her feet, and meandered over to him. "Since your death? Or since we made our deal?"

"The second. Unless you're only counting two years since my death date."

She presented him a smile. "Now, that would hardly be fair. The agreement was that you exist on Is for two years – really exist, not just sit in your room all the time, avoiding life."

"Avoiding death," he corrected in a mumble.

"Oh, yes, forgive me – it's all the same from my perspective," said Reyna buoyantly. "So . . . let us see. January, I believe that was?" She stood on tiptoe and craned her neck back, looking towards the very top of the calendar. "Ahh, yes, there it is, January 11th of 1843. And today being the Earth day of May 28th, that makes – seventeen-shift-the-one-eight-ten-twelve – yes, one hundred and thirty seven days since we made our deal." She lowered herself back down to the balls of her feet and glanced at him sideways. "And, if my memory serves me correctly, it has been some sixty or seventy Earth days since you last came by to see me."

"It wasn't necessary to check every circle," he muttered, glowering at the calendar. "Only agitated me further."

"A wise plan," agreed Reyna, still looking at him as he studied the calendar. "But I'm impressed that you managed to taper down so quickly. Going from a visit here every circle to without a visit for – well, there is no calendar of circles, of course, but it's certainly been quite a few, Mr. Barker."

"Todd," he growled. She always insisted on calling him that and he always insisted on correcting her. Not that it made any difference.

"I remember the name I see upon the roster and can never retrain myself," she apologized, but her mouth was still smiling. "You must have a much stronger will and ability to retrain yourself than I do, though, seeing as you avoided this calendar for so long."

She was watching him too closely, smiling too brightly, as though she knew perfectly well that his will was no stronger than a cowering rat's. But he would not break; he would not reveal any morsel of truth about why he had not been to her office in so long. The netherlands were forbidden, and he was not about to throw himself towards any more trouble: nothing further would endanger she upholding her end of their bargain.

"I try," said Sweeney, bowing his head at her before moving towards the door. "Good-bye."

"Take care, Mr. Barker," she called after him, her smile scorching into his back as he stepped through the wall and into his shop. Into a chaos that resembled his mind far too much for his liking.

The paintbrushes seemed to taunt him, lying there on the floor, neglected. As did the paint cans, easel, sketchpads, pencils, erasers, loose papers, and palette, mocking his every movement without even twitching. Whatever Mrs. Lovett said, it had been proven by his ghastly failures that Sweeney Todd was no artist. Why did she continue to interfere? Why did she continue to give him bad advice? And _why did he continue to listen to her?_

Throwing that last thought away with a hiss, Sweeney stared down at the art supplies lying helter-skelter around his shop. He had been trying for countless circles to make something less than awful. Trying being the key word: nothing he painted or drew resembled anything remotely attractive.

He turned his attention to the potter's wheel he had purchased this morning. Perhaps pottery would be more successful than his painting and sketching attempts had been?

It was a slim chance, but he certainly hoped so, because he was running out of money to continue purchasing new supplies every time he failed at something else.

xxx

"Hello, love."

Sweeney did not even bother to look at her. "We already had dinner, Mrs. Lovett."

He heard her release an angry puff of air from her lips. "I _know _that, Mr. Todd. Is that the only thing I'm good for now? Bringing you your meals?"

Startled by her fury, he glanced up. "I just . . . didn't know why else you would come in here."

He had no idea why she would come in here at _all_, truth be known. He'd tossed her into an oven, for God's sake, and yet she still was willing to be around him, still would willing place herself before him. Granted, it wasn't as though he could kill her again, so he supposed she didn't have much to fear. Why, though, did she continue to come see him, circle after circle? She wasn't still in love with him; she'd made that clear when they arrived upon Is. Yet there she stood – always.

Her ability to forgive and forget – or at least not let the past affect her – astounded him as much as it disgusted him. Nevermind what he felt towards her – how could she continue to be friendly to her murderer?

But pain could still exist in the afterlife, as he well knew, and should he choose to, he could make her life hell . . . and for that, for her being able to look beyond that, or at least put it to the side, there was a certain layer of delicate respect –

_Respect? She lied to you – betrayed you –_

"I thought you might want some gin," Lovett retorted, a stiff, hard edge to each of hers words as they plummeted to the ground, and only now did he notice the bottles in her arms. His eyes widened. How many was she carrying? Five? Six? "But if not, fine, I'll go on my way and you can just – "

"Sit," he mumbled in her general direction.

Lovett began a muttered tirade involving the words 'men,' 'no manners,' and 'bloody annoying' . . . so he was surprised when she sat down across from him at the table, unloading the flagons upon the surface. He tallied them with a quick sweep of his eye: six. Six tall, full bottles of gin.

"Are you planning on consuming all of those tonight?" he could not help but ask. Even she couldn't be that mental.

"Don't be silly." She poured them each a glass. "But better to have too many than too few, don't you think?" Downing her shot in one swallow, she set her tumbler back down on the table and smiled at him. "Oh, don't look at me like that, love, I'm fine. Nothing wrong with a bit of gin every now and then."

"Is something wrong?" Sweeney inquired, winding his finger around the rim of his tumbler and tracking its progress with his eyes.

"I – no – no, of course not, Mr. T. But thank you for asking," she murmured.

Not entirely reassured, Sweeney nodded. It certainly wasn't the first time they'd ever shared a bottle or two, but it was the first time since . . . well, since they'd died.

_It's become a new routine of theirs, ever since he arrived back in London, and though it's hardly much of one, he's thankful to it, to her. The only routine he has known the past fifteen years is the long days of labor in the colony, the meager portions of food twice a day, and of course the punishments when they do not work hard enough . . . _

_This habit of sharing a bottle of gin with her is strangely comforting. Comforting to sit and drink and numb the agony of his mind, at least for a little while. Comforting to have another presence beside him, even if he never says much to her._

Lovett poured herself another glass. "So, how're your art endeavors coming along?"

He motioned towards his latest creations. "See for yourself."

Tumbler in hand, Lovett got to her feet and swept over to them, mouth rounding into an 'o.' "Mr. Todd! They're – they're beautiful! I didn't know that you – when did you purchase a potter's wheel?"

"About a week – about seven or eight circles ago."

Lovett touched a hand to her astonished lips. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged. "I'm opening my shop tomorrow. I only have ten finished pieces, as you can see, but I'm nearly out of clay, and I need more m – talent – if I'm to buy more."

Eyes glittering, she turned back to him, fingers still lingering against her mouth, which had swelled into a smile. "All the pots are lovely, Mr. T. Truly."

He nodded his thanks. To his surprise, Sweeney had found that sculpting pottery – much like giving someone a smooth shave – required a certain dexterity, a skillful, caring hand.

Even more to his surprise was that he enjoyed it.

xxx

"Hello? Are you still open?"

An elderly woman with frizzled gray hair and prominent frown lines appeared from behind a tower of fabric and sewing materials. "Indeed I am, ma'am." She eyed the many bundles cradled in Nellie's arms. "Though from the looks of it, you've done yourself enough shopping already. Hiding emotions by purchasing new things, are we?"

Nellie frowned and clutched her purchases to her chest. "Well, then. If you aren't in need of my business, I'll just take myself elsewhere – "

"Oh, no, no, no, that's not necessary," the woman hastily amended, sobering. "I'd be more than happy to help you, ma'am. You must forgive a lady in her old age – words just sometimes fly out of my mouth without my approval, even when it isn't my place to comment. Please, ma'am, I'm very sorry – "

Nellie was not in the mood; she held up her hand to stem the woman's chatter. "Very well. I'd like to order a dress for myself and a suit for a – male acquaintance of mine. He isn't here, but I have his measurements." _Memorized._ But she didn't mention that part. She gestured to the door of the shop, whereupon the outside was a sign reading _Mademoiselle Gaspard's Attire_. "You are Miss Gaspard, yes? Not a helper?"

"No, no, I am she, ma'am."

Nellie had to hide a smirk; the woman was practically falling over backwards in her eagerness to win back the baker's favor. "In that case, proceed."

As though drawing them from thin air, Mademoiselle Gaspard suddenly held a measuring tape and several papers in her hand. "Yes, well, yes, I'll take your measurements first. . . ." She stuck one end of the measuring tape under her shoe, brought the other end to the top of Nellie's head, and then scribbled down her findings upon the paper. "And what sort of dress were you interested in, ma'am?"

Nellie rattled off her demands as the dressmaker went about sizing various parts of her body: "I'm not too fussy. But it must be an evening gown – made of silk – with flounces around the skirt and ribbon trim – oh, and an extra ribbon for the hair."

Gaspard wound the measuring tape around Nellie's waist. "Such a thin waist!" she clucked admiringly; Nellie could not tell if Mademoiselle Gaspard was muttering to herself, or if she intended for her customer to overhear. "Oh, and – you are aware of how clothes made by seamstresses and tailors work here, yes?"

"Erm – what?"

"Mmm, clearly you're not," Gaspard answered her own question. "Clothing items made by an Is soul do not work the same as the robes most often worn by the spirits. Only these garments" – she gestured to her own black robes – "can move with you when walking through walls."

"Well, that explains why I hardly ever see anyone wearing anything other than these stupid robes despite all the beautiful clothing shops," Nellie reasoned out to herself. "So what happens when you try to walk through a wall wearing something other than these dressing gowns?"

"You simply can't. You'll end up right where you started. So most souls save their custom-made outfits for special occasions, or for when they only have a few hallways to walk through."

What sort of 'special occasions' occurred on Is, Nellie had no idea. From what she could tell, each circle was much like the next.

"And what color would you like the dress?" Mademoiselle Gaspard inquired.

Nellie's head tilted; she had not considered this factor yet. "Well – huh. I don't know, dear – you're the expert on these matters. What d'you think would suit me best?"

"Hmm." Mademoiselle Gaspard paused her measuring to rake her eyes over Nellie. "Pale complexion but dark red-brown curls," she muttered, as though Nellie was no longer there, "delicate heart-shaped face but a defiant brow, full lips but an upturned nose, small waist but a large chest" – Nellie was not sure whether or not to take offense at her breast size being discussed so blatantly; it was one of her few physical features she took pride in, but _really _ – "and then those dark eyes. . . . You're a series of contradictions, aren't you? Well, you need something to stand out against your skin, yet also complement your hair and eye color – I believe, dear, that you would look best in a brilliant red."

The irony of this was not lost on the cannibalistic baker. "D'you really?" she asked drolly.

"Oh, yes, yes, definitely. But of course, it is your dress – if there is another color that you desire more – "

"No, it's fine – as I said, you probably know best."

Mademoiselle Gaspard clucked and mumbled half-hearted protests at this, but she was obviously lapping up the praise.

Nellie's lips twisted into a smile. "Red it'll be, then."

xxx

" . . . such talent!"

" . . . the handicraft is superb . . ."

". . . a born artist . . ."

The muttered praise drifted lazily around the room as the customers strolled, admiring his pottery pieces. Sweeney, having already made three sales that circle, sat in the corner, working on his next project: a small statue, rather than a pot, this time. It was his first open circle, and his business was already a success. No shopkeeper could ask for more.

He had not realized how much he missed using his hands until discovering the art of pottery . . . how lacking he had been those many circles on Is without being able to shape, to carve, to create.

Too, he was fond of the fettling knives he had purchased; he had missed having a silver blade in his hand. These knives were nothing like his friends, of course, and never would be. But they were powerful and lovely in their own right, even if not as sharp, and felt natural in his palm.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Todd." It was George, the man who had led him to the netherlands. It seemed like such a long time ago now; already the recollections of Johanna were hazy around the edges, like a gorgeous dream rather than actual memories.

George stuck out his hand, and Sweeney took it. "You as well, Mr. . . ."

George laughed then. "Guess we never had a proper introduction, did we? I'm George Stroudt. And to be honest, I only know your name because it's on your shop sign." He lowered his voice. "Did you ever find – "

"Yes," said Sweeney shortly. He did not want to talk about it.

Thankfully, George received the message loud and clear. "Well, I just wanted to relate to you my admiration at what you've created so far. It's been a while since I've seen pots that smooth – most of the potters on Is, for whatever reason, have much less steady hands – "

If George said anything further, Sweeney was not aware of it. He was distracted – completely caught off guard; at a loss for any sort of action, nevermind thought; shocked to his core – by the soul that had just come into his shop.

Had he still been able to form rational thought, he would not have been so jarred. Had he considered the matter beforehand, he would have expected this to happen, or at least be prepared for the possibility of it happening.

But he could not, and he had not.

And Judge Turpin had entered the room.

Their eyes locked. Slowly, hardly breathing, Sweeney rose to his feet and prowled towards the judge, not stopping until they stood perhaps half a foot apart.

"Get out."

Turpin permitted only a sneer to cross his vile face. He looked as he had nearly twenty years ago, as the powerful man in his prime who had shipped Benjamin Barker away, not the man of fading glory who had bled out in his barber chair.

"Is there really any point in such hostility, barber?" he queried. "I've only come to admire your new establishment."

"_Get out."_ Those seemed to be the only words his mouth could form. His mind, clouding over with fury, with _red_, could not produce any other thoughts.

"I do wonder what the use is in calling this shop '_Sweeney Todd's_ Gallery,' though?" Now a curve of one eyebrow accompanied the sneer. "Who exactly are you hiding from? No need to fear getting sent back to Australia for breaking your sentence, after all . . . besides, you have nothing further that I want – "

The only thing more satisfying than breaking a nose, Sweeney's rage-fogged mind decided as his fist sunk deep into Turpin's face with a _crack_, was slicing skin open with a sharp blade.

But since he had no razors – and since the bastard couldn't die twice – this would certainly do.

xxx

"Well, it's cyan," Nellie pronounced, "time for our lunch break."

Nellie and Eloise gently probed the remaining customers out of the shop, promising to return within the chord.

"Y'know, dear, I've got to tell you," said Nellie, busying herself at the counter with reheating a meatless shepherd's pie, "business is so much easier with you and Anatoly around. And far more fun – most of the customers are lovely, don't get me wrong, but you two really do brighten up my day."

Despite that she was blushing, Eloise grinned. "Well, I like working here. I used to get really bored, doing nearly the same thing every circle . . . but every circle is different in here."

Nellie beamed as she slid the pie onto a platter. "Alright, c'mon, love. Let's go eat lunch with Mr. Todd."

Eloise's eyes expanded. "I can see him? Really? Is he finally feeling better?"

Nellie waved her hand in the air. "He claims to not be, but the reality is that he's fit as a fiddle. Besides, today is the opening circle for his new art gallery. If Mr. T is opening shop today, then he must feel well enough to have visitors, and I see no reason why that shouldn't include you."

Eloise beamed. Shepherd's pie in hand, a bottle of ale tucked under her arm, Nellie meandered over towards the wall. Eloise grabbed onto the skirts of the baker's robes, and together they walked through the wall.

"Hello, Mr. T, I've got your – "

She broke off, forgetting to breathe, as Sweeney's fist crashed into Turpin's left eye. In blind retaliation, one eye squeezed shut from pain, Turpin groped at Sweeney's robes and twisted his collar, as though to suffocate him in its folds. Sweeney gasped for air and kneed Turpin in the stomach. Turpin doubled over and collapsed on the ground; hands still fisted in Sweeney's clothes, Sweeney tumbled down on top of him and wasted no time in throwing another punch to his nose.

Nellie, her throat as tight as though it were _her_ neck contorted in fabric, dove her eyes around at the others in the room. Several had blanched and were leaving the shop, but most were watching with avid, thirsty interest. Her barber was not the only one with a bloodlust.

Her gaze snapped back to the brawl upon the floor just in time to witness Turpin's fist slamming against Sweeney's chin. Blood from Sweeney's newly split lip dripped onto Turpin's knuckles as Sweeney wrenched Turpin's wrist away, attempting to pin his hands to the ground.

The sanguine droplets on the barber's deathly-white lips awakened her: seizing Eloise's hand – the girl was frozen with fright beside her, poor dear – Nellie stepped backwards into the wall they'd come from. Sweeney and Turpin wouldn't stop fighting unless pulled bodily away from each other – and she was far from being the right person for that job.

Once outside Barsid Sajemgi's room, Nellie wasted no time in knocking. A part of her couldn't believe she was going to _him_ for help, of all people – but he was the only Is official that she knew. He must have some sort of way to contact the police force, or whoever was expected to restore order around here (and whoever they were, she hoped they were a lot bloody better than the cops in London).

The door creaked open, revealing Barsid and an older man who looked a great deal like him. Barsid's brow creased when he saw her. "Mrs. Lovett, my dear, this really is not a good time – "

"It's fine," said the other man, with a voice like a ship being dragged onto sand. "I'll come back another time – it's not something I'm lacking, after all." He bowed his head at Nellie before vanishing into the wall.

"Is that your father?" Nellie wondered aloud.

"My son," said Barsid softly. _His son?_ That man had a good forty, maybe fifty years on Barsid. Reading her expression, Barsid continued in the same low timbre, "He was fortunate enough to live many more years than I."

Nellie was about to ask for more information, but stopped herself, doing her best to quell her curiosity. _Everyone has a story to tell,_ she realized as she stared at Barsid. _Some are more unique than others, some are more interesting than others, some are more tragic than others . . . but everyone has one. People aren't always the cardboard cut-outs we like to pretend they are._

There was a tug at her robes: Eloise. Jolted back to reality and the pressing situation, Nellie turned an alarmed gaze to Barsid, furious with herself for getting distracted and wasting precious points. Sweeney and Turpin had already been battered, bloodied messes when she'd left, and now that even more time had passed –

"There's a fight," Nellie blurted out. "Mr. Todd and Turpin – they're beating each other to pieces – I thought maybe you could alert the police, or whatever you've got around here – "

Gone was the quietness from his expression – Barsid was alert now. "Where?"

Dimly, Nellie realized she was still holding the shepherd's pie and ale bottle. "His shop – _Sweeney Todd's Gallery _– "

"Say no more." Without another word, Barsid stepped through the wall.

Nellie swallowed and glanced down at Eloise. "El, darling, I think you should go to your room for a bit. Or to your father's shop."

Eloise still looked shell-shocked, but she shook her head, jaw setting at a familiar stubborn angle. "No. I'm coming with you. We're going back to Mr. Todd's shop now, right?"

Rather than continuing to argue with the girl and waste even more time, Nellie sighed her reply: "Yes, dear. C'mon now."

They stepped through the wall and back into Sweeney's shop. Either the police here had nothing to do, or they were just extremely fast, for they had already arrived and broken apart the fight. Two men each were now restraining Sweeney and Turpin, a firm grip on their arms. A fifth officer stood in-between them, delivering a lecture. The customers who still lingered in the shop bore hungry, put-out looks akin to all mobs who have just had a fight they were enjoying disrupted.

As to the former barber and judge – they had certainly seen better circles. Each sported several brilliant bruises along their faces, and Nellie felt sure that such a pattern would continue under their clothes; hair stuck up in ways that were normally impossible, streaked with blood; faces were battered to the point where it was a wonder they could still see.

". . . not acceptable at all, d'you hear?" the officer in the middle was saying when Nellie began to listen. "Now, don't think this sort of thing will go unpunished, because it most certainly won't. I expect to see you both later today in my office. You" – he nodded at Turpin – "will be there at magenta. And you" – his beady gaze turned to Sweeney – "will be there at scarlet. Is that clear?"

"Exceptionally," Turpin drawled. She could see Sweeney's skin goosebump just from the sound of his voice.

"Right," the officer continued, "out you go, then." The two officers holding Turpin escorted him out. Once gone, the pair holding Sweeney back released their grip and followed, trailed by the fifth. Now that the spectacle was truly over, the loitering spirits drifted out of the room as well, until only Nellie, Sweeney, and Eloise remained.

"Good God," Nellie finally muttered, staring at Sweeney, who had done naught since being let go of but burn a hole in the wall with his eyes at the spot where Turpin had vanished. Finally putting down the plate of shepherd's pie and the ale bottle, she moved towards him. He flinched when she put a hand against his bruised face. Most women would have been repulsed by his clobbered state, but not her: she'd seen men in _all_ sorts of disrepair, and she was more than used to blood by now. Keeping her fingers on his cheek even as he batted her away, she reached up with her other hand to dab with her sleeve at the excess blood on his face.

"What did you do that for, you fool?" she asked softly.

Predictably, she received no response. She sighed.

"Are you okay?"

Eloise's voice made both Sweeney and Nellie start. Oddly, as his eyes settled on the girl, he seemed to refocus on what was around him rather than what wasn't.

"I'm fine," Sweeney told her.

"No, you're not," Eloise responded, stating the obvious. "You're dripping blood."

Absently, Nellie pressed a finger upon Sweeney's lip, split open and oozing rubies. She barely stopped herself from shivering when Sweeney's ebony stare settled on her, unnervingly blank.

"You've got two black eyes too," Eloise continued, "and it looks like you can barely see out of the left."

"El," Nellie enunciated as gently as she could, "I'm going to try and clean Mr. Todd up a bit. Could you put up a sign on the shop saying that we'll be shut for a few extra chords? Until, say, violet? And then maybe go visit your dad for a while?"

Eloise may have been stubborn and young, but she clearly picked up Nellie's unspoken words:_ I need you to leave the two of us alone for a little while._ And, even more impressively, she took heed of them. "Sure, Mrs. Lovett. I'll see you soon."

She would have to remember to thank the girl excessively later, Nellie thought to herself as Eloise left. Turning her attention back to Sweeney, she sighed. "C'mon, love. Let's get to your room and fix you up, eh?"

He did not move. "You didn't have to shut down your shop for those extra chords."

"Well, of course I didn't _have_ to, but I'm not about to leave you alone in this condition. And I'm sure when you see a mirror, you'll agree – a sight for sore eyes, you are – c'mon – "

Like some sort of bizarre rag doll, she half-carried and half-guided him through the wall and into his room, whereupon she pushed him down into a sitting position on the bed, glowering at him as she clicked into caretaker mode. "Now, you wait here while I get some fresh water and such, alright?"

When she returned – a bucket of water held firm in her right hand, bandages and clothes tucked under her left arm – she sat down beside him on the bed. Dipping one of the cloths into the water, she set to work cleaning up

_("all that blood. Poor bugger.")_

the blood, some parts of which had dried, other areas which were still fresh and leaked a new drop every now and then. She couldn't tell if all of it was his blood, or if some was Turpin's.

"What was all that for, you fool?" she couldn't stop herself from asking again as she pressed another wet cloth to his split lip (it wouldn't stop bleeding). "What were you hoping to accomplish by picking a fight, hmm?" Red began to seep into the white fabric. "Beat the lout into a state of nonexistence or something?"

She dipped the cloth back into the water, wrung it out, then reapplied it against his lip, refusing to think about the cozy distance between them, about the fact that her fingers were on his mouth, about the way she was burning for him – loving him – even as she continued hating him, about the times before when they had been this close, about the way this used to be normal for them.

All the time she'd been tending to his wounds, he had continued to stare at her, and finally she could not contain herself. "What? What're you looking at me like that for?"

"You knew." The words were not an accusation, but fact.

Her face colored at once. "Don't tell me we're back on that subject again – "

"You knew," he repeated, tilting his head to the left, pensive. "You knew that Turpin was here."

"Wh – no, no, I didn't. Of course I didn't."

He only continued to look at her.

"I didn't, love, I promise, I . . ." She faltered. "Well – see – while you were gone, I did think that I'd glimpsed him wandering the halls, but I'd already been seeing things that weren't there earlier that circle" – _like you_ – "so I thought he was just an illusion."

His damn lip had finally stopped bleeding, thank Is. She took the cloth away from his mouth and began to fuss with his robes. When he threw her a deeply disgruntled look, she barked, "Oh, c'mon love, don't pretend like you've got no injuries under here." He didn't reply. Doing her best not to look uncomfortable or (God help her) salacious, she peeled off the part of his robes covering his torso, leaving them alone from the waist and below. As predicted, there was a fair amount of new bruising along his chest and arms, and one of the scars he'd gotten in Australia

_she traces her lips along its path, loving the way it snakes from just below the first rib on his left side along to the top of his navel, loving it even more when he thunders an inarticulate groan that causes his abdomen to tremble, her wandering mouth trembling right along with it_

now sported atop itself a new cut, fresh and open, creating a slanting across over his torso.

"Don't tell me Turpin had a knife?" she demanded.

"I had a fettling knife in my pocket," Sweeney grumbled. "Sharp end slipped when we fell on the ground and cut me." He picked up his robes and ran them between his fingers, frowning as he studied the material. "Didn't slice the robes at all, though."

Nellie didn't so much as glance at this fabric miracle: she was long past being amused by the peculiarities of Is. With careful hands, she picked up a fresh cloth and began to swab at his laceration to make sure it hadn't been infected. Not that she knew if wounds could get infected here. But she wasn't about to take risks.

"What gave me away, hmm?" she inquired. He gave her a questioning glance. "About how you thought I knew the judge was here."

He shrugged, torso shifting with the movement, and her hand slipped. "Don't do that," she scolded, before giving a heavy exhale. "Wonder what sort of 'punishment' they've got in mind for the pair of you."

"The officer mentioned some sort of 'public service' before you came into the room," Sweeney communicated, wincing as her fingers ghosted over a particularly nasty bruise on his left shoulder.

"Well, that doesn't sound too bad, I s'pose. I was imagining some sort of – I don't know, exile or something – "

"My dear," said Sweeney, regarding her with black amusement, "how on Earth would they put us into exile here? We would simply walk through the wall and leave."

"Well, I don't know," she grumbled, sponging down along his arm. "But you can't walk through the walls of a room that's locked, so I s'pose that would do the trick – " As she came into contact with his left wrist, he hissed in pain. She threw him a glance. "Does that hurt?"

"Yes," he ground out between his teeth.

"Hmm. It does look out of place. Can you still move it? Go on, try." Glowering at her, he obeyed, raising his arm slightly and flopping his hand ever so slightly up and down; she ignored the agonized whistles and curses he spat through a clenched jaw and simply noted his restricted movement. "Well, it's not broken, since you've still got some mobility – but it's definitely dislocated." Picking up a bandage, she began to wrap the wrist. Despite her careful movements, Sweeney continued to hiss cusses under his breath, until finally she declared it done.

"Well," she said, assessing him with her eyes, "you still look far from becoming, but at least you're a bit more presentable." He still looked right bloody handsome, damn him. Even beaten and bloody, he was absolutely beautiful.

_And you, Nellie Lovett, are absolutely pathetic._

xxx

"You don't have to come with me," Sweeney apprised her.

Lovett snorted. "And leave you alone to handle this civilly?"

"I can behave quite civilly, Mrs. Lovett."

"Mmhmm," she said, obviously not agreeing. "Well, let's say I'm coming for moral support then, eh?"

It was a quarter to scarlet – a quarter to Sweeney's appointed time to meet with an officer to receive his due punishment. And, being as infuriating and meddling as ever, Mrs. Lovett insisted upon accompanying him.

When they stepped through the wall, they found themselves – as always – within another gray stone-walled room. This room looked perhaps quadruple the size of the standard living quarters granted to one Is soul, and served as some sort of waiting room. Many chairs lined the room's perimeter, and so did perhaps a dozen doors. Upon each door were at least one hundred different labels in gold letters, each in a different language.

"_Police Force_ – _Courthouse_ – _Legislation_ – " Lovett was reading some of the English labels in a mumble. "They've sure got all their areas covered, haven't they?"

In the center of the room sat a solitary desk and a dark-haired woman – and, standing before the desk, spine erect and hands clenched, was Turpin.

The barber and baker both came to a halt. Turpin's back was to them, so he had not seen the pair; he seemed intent upon speaking to the secretary.

Sweeney's teeth clenched, his fingers stretching, longing for what he did not have any longer. His devil's hand settled against his right arm then at once, a soft restraint, a reminder; his muscles relaxed, but he remained tense, ready.

". . . it was only a momentary lapse of judgment," Turpin was saying, his tone as affluent as smooth as ever, a stark contrast to the tension balled in his fists. "I assure you it won't happen again – "

"You're assuring the wrong person," said the woman, sounding bored. "I'm not the one who fired you."

Turpin's jaw tightened. "I know. I am merely trying to make it clear to you – since your superiors won't deign to associate with me – that I will never again display such uncouth behavior, and that you can return me to the courtroom without worry – "

"Darling," the woman drawled without interest, leaning her chin upon one hand, "you're still talking to the wrong person."

Turpin's tone lowered in volume but raised in pitch, struggling to remain in control within a situation where he no longer was entitled to any such word: "I was a judge while still among the living – it was my chosen profession, and one that I held with great pride, a great sense of responsibility – my judgment in the courtroom will in no way be impacted by the disgraceful behavior I exhibited today – "

"Can I help you?" the secretary called over to Sweeney and Lovett, obviously tired of this conversation.

Turpin whirled around. His fists jerked at his sides when he saw Sweeney, but he disguised the instinctual gesture of violence as best he could, unfurling his fingers and smoothing down his robes, writhing his lips into a smile. "Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lovett," he greeted with a bow of his head, not entirely able to hide his gritted teeth. "You'll have to excuse my abrupt departure – I was just leaving."

"You're excused," said Lovett with a simpering smile as he walked past them, drawing closer to Sweeney's side as Turpin came precariously close to brushing her shoulder. Sweeney watched Turpin as he strolled past, shoulders relaxed and smiling leisurely, trailing him with his eyes until he disappeared through the wall.

Lovett squeezed Sweeney's arm, drawing him back to reality, and he stepped forward. "I'm supposed to see Berg Knochenmus," he told the secretary. _Berg Knochenmus._ German origin, both first and last name. Berg meant mountain. Knochenmus – he couldn't recall that one quite as easily – knochen meant bone, he remembered that –

The woman's eyebrows elevated. "_Ah_. You're the other one who got into the fight earlier today? Benjamin Barker?"

His body tautened. "Sweeney Todd." Lovett squeezed his arm and his tense muscles put themselves at ease. "But yes, that's correct. Could you tell me where to find him?"

"Go through the _Police Force_ door, then through the one that has his name on it. Don't bother trying to walk through the walls, either – it won't work – the doors in the _Law Department_ are always locked."

Nodding once, Sweeney progressed in that direction, Lovett still on his arm. "She was a right dunce, wasn't she?" Lovett murmured in his ear as they strolled along and let themselves into the _Police Force_ hall. Mutely, he jerked his head in agreement, and upon reaching the door marked _Berg Knochenmus_, knocked, being sure to use his right hand rather than his left, which still throbbed each time he moved his arm. He was, at least, right-handed, but this dislocated wrist would make pottery difficult for some circles.

The brawny, square-jawed officer who'd lectured him earlier that circle opened the door. "Good evening, Mr. Barker."

"It's Todd, if you don't mind."

"Yes, I meant to ask you about that," said Knochenmus as he ushered him inside. "Any particular reason that you – " He paused when he noticed Lovett. "Can I help you, madam?"

"No," said Lovett airily, "I'm just here with Mr. Todd, is all. Please, carry on as though I'm not around at all."

"Yes, well," said Knochenmus as they all settled into the chairs around his desk, eyeing Sweeney. "As I was saying. It seems very strange to me that on our records you appear as Benjamin Barker, yet the sign on your shop declares you to be Sweeney Todd . . . it's rather confusing. Why the pseudonym? Surely you want people to be able to find your business location?"

Every muscle and sinew in his body was seizing, tightening, his jaws binding together so firmly it were as though they meant to never be separated. Why did it matter to Knochenmus what he chose to call himself? Couldn't he simply doll out Sweeney's punishment and let him go on his way? Sweeney Todd was merely who he _was_; why should he have to explain it to every bloody person who liked to stick their overzealous noses in others' business?

"With all due respect, sir," Lovett's voice wafted into the air beside him, calm and collected and a small bit sardonic, "sometimes it just _is what it is_."

Knochenmus' eyes narrowed for a minute at her disrespectful tone, but then his mouth cracked into a smile, a few chuckles sliding from reluctant lips. "A fair point, madam. Well" – he refocused on Sweeney – "you know why you're here, of course, and I'm sure the pair of you want to spend your evening elsewhere. So let's try to make this brief, shall we?

"Our typical punishment for those who disrupt the peace is community service of some kind. We feel that this sort of discipline not only encourages the souls not to misbehave again, but it also gives them an outlet into the Is community. A method of creation, rather than destruction."

Lovett's hand still rested on his forearm, and her fingers began to tap against his skin to a tune only she could hear. He considered twisting away from her, but repressed the urge – for all he knew, the police might also judge 'avoiding physical contact' as a misconduct of some kind.

Knochenmus leaned back in his chair. "After a brief deliberation with my fellow officers, we've come to a decision about the sort of public service you will be doing. I don't make assumptions as to the two of your existences, but I do know that many of the souls on Is have trouble filling their time here, especially the kids. Whether from a lack of purpose, boredom, regret" – Lovett's pecking fingers clenched for a moment upon his arm before resuming their beat – "or confusion, they are often left wondering what to do with themselves come each circle."

Sweeney raised an eyebrow. "And I fit into the solution to this problem because . . .?"

A smile appeared on Knochenmus' face. "Because you're going to be a teacher."

Sweeney only stared. Not in all of his ruminations had he considered _that_ being one of his potential punishments. He'd thought he might have to clean rooms, or file paperwork, or something along those lines.

Perhaps mistaking his apathy for acceptance, Knochenmus continued, "We're always trying to include new classes at our school. New souls are arriving all the time, and old souls begin to become bored if the education material never varies. So we've decided that you will be an educator."

"Of?" was the only word Sweeney could manage.

The officer seemed surprised by the question. "Art, of course. You've got an art shop, you know the material. What would be the point of having you teach something you didn't know squat about?"

He_ didn't_ know 'squat' about art. But announcing that he didn't wouldn't change anything, he knew that. Knochenmus had all the facts he wanted, and he would refuse to listen to more. Sweeney knew how sentences and convictions worked; his words would be seen as nothing more than protesting lies, just as they had been at the trial of Benjamin Barker.

"_But I swear I didn't!" he cries, flying to his feet even as his lawyer hisses at him to sit, spitting that it his not his turn to speak, but what does turn taking matter when that man currently on the stand is spouting lies, lies, lies, lies that will determine his entire future if he doesn't speak out now –_

"You'll be teaching in classroom 803 from indigo to orchid," Knochenmus said. "The class will be held every other circle starting in – hmm, three circles? That should be enough time for you to prepare curriculum for the first day, at least."

No. This was not a life sentence. As unpleasant as teaching a room full of befuddled and ignoble souls would be, it did not compare, it did not _deserve_ comparison. Yet both of these sentences – the one he had received all those years ago, and the one he was getting now – were for the same essential reason, were because of the same person.

His hands shook with rage, setting his left wrist aflame with pain again. He had thought murdering Turpin would take him out of his life – that, after avenging Lucy by slaughtering the one who had done this to them both, he would no longer be consumed, followed, haunted by the judge. He could not escape him, not even in death, not even when his soul was supposed to be at peace, or at least far away from –

"Any questions?"

Sweeney shook his head and stood.

"Alright," Knochenmus said, and barber and baker began to leave. "Best of luck with the class, then. And don't think we won't be watching to make sure that you're doing what's been assigned to you."

Sweeney's head slanted at that. "How many circles am I required to teach for?"

Knochenmus' shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. His arms were so thick with muscles that it was a wonder this movement didn't seem to hurt him. "However many it takes until we feel that the message has sunk in. We like to keep affairs running smoothly on Is, Barker." Mrs. Lovett's hand pressed against his tensing muscles; _careful_, her fingertips hummed, _don't do anything foolish_. "Brawls – or any conduct of that sort – are not tolerated, for any reasons."

Sweeney shifted his jaw, but refrained from verbal comment. Certainly the Is authorities could refuse to 'tolerate' just about anything – but what could actually be _done_ if a soul refused to behave? Death certainly wasn't a viable punishment, money flowed far too plentifully for a fine to be painful, and a spirit locked away in prison could merely walk through the wall if he desired to escape. Knochenmus' threats were really just a lot of hogwash.

"We do have more severe punishments, Barker, than community service," said Knochenmus lowly, gathering from Sweeney's silence what he did not say aloud. "Death may not be an option – but that certainly doesn't limit our possibilities."

Lovett's tapping fingers gripped his forearm; Sweeney bit his lip to keep from snarling as her nails dug into his flesh. He shot her a glare, but she didn't notice. And, to be honest, he wasn't sure he was able to muster a glare anyhow.

"There are jails here; it's simple enough to throw away a key and keep a soul in a single room for all eternity, or to inflict injury . . . pain exists most strongly, after all, in the mind."

Lovett's fingers gouged so hard into Sweeney's arm that he began to lose feeling in the limb. Fear of further punishment or not, he would have ripped himself from her grasp at once if he could have remembered how to use the network between brain and body. The former was numb, the latter limp.

Knochenmus paused, scrutinizing Sweeney's face. He apparently found nothing of satisfaction, for her frowned. Well, what did he expect to find? Fear? Sweeney Todd was burdened by too much pain to fear it; pain was natural; a human breathed it like air. The idea of the keyless prison, however – a room where one was walled in forever – that was terrifying. His own intangible walls were prison enough: to be surrounded by their physical embodiment as well . . . he only repressed his shudder by binding his tense muscles even further together.

"Are we clear?" asked Knochenmus.

"Quite." Sweeney moved for the door; Lovett, beside him, hacked out a "pleasant evening to you, sir" over her shoulder to the policeman as they started back down the hallway.

"Well, that wasn't so bad, eh?" Lovett twittered with what seemed like great forced cheer once they were out of the _Law Enforcement_ rooms. "Could've been a lot worse, I'm sure. A teacher. Can't quite picture you imparting wisdom to the young, dear, but I'm sure that you'll be just fine."

_She_ might have been sure, but he wasn't.

"Ah, chin up, love," she cajoled. "Really, you'll be fine. You heard the other threats he was tossing around – compared to the lifelong prison and torture sentence, or whatever he was alluding to – well, you're doing quite well with the teaching position. Wonder what sort of students will show up? I know that it's mostly kids who attend the classes, but lots of adults do too – that's how so many people on Is know so many languages, isn't that interesting? Anatoly was telling me about it. Perhaps I should try and learn another language, what d'you think? Used to be quite fluent in French, though I've gone a bit rusty on that. What d'you reckon would come in handy the most? I've always thought Spanish was lovely, but – "

Perhaps realizing he was not listening and did not care, Lovett halted her babbles. Tilting her head to the side, dangerously close to leaning it against his shoulder, she peered up at him, eyes reflecting pity colored with distinct affection. Several tendrils of hair escaping from her knot brushed his neck.

"Now, look here, Mr. Todd. I know you're put out by having to be a teacher – and I know you're upset that bastard still isn't out of your life," she added, softer, and he could not help his eyes from sprinting to meet hers, shocked that she had comprehended what was going through his mind without him saying a word. Then again, why should he be shocked? She had always been able to read him, interpret him, drawing inferences and conclusions that were usually startling accurate. It was his own fault, really, his fault for ever having allowed her to grow close to him in the first place, for letting her see more of him than anyone else ever had, for trusting her –

_("what's dead is dead")_

"But let's face the facts, love," she murmured. "You can't go around trying to kill people anymore. One, we're already dead. And two, murder – or, well, attempted murder – isn't as easy to hide here."

Rage was foaming, hatred was gurgling, memories were threatening to resurface – yet despite all this, Sweeney's voice was indifferent, almost detached, when he replied, "Judge still isn't on your menu, then?"

He wasn't looking at her anymore, but he could feel the heat of her smile radiating beside him as they meandered down the hall. "No dear, I'm afraid it's not, but"

_("but we've got something you might fancy even better!")_

"perhaps you can develop taste buds for one of our other delightful flavors, hmm? It's best, y'know, to not have an appetite for what you can't have."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** A super long and eventful chapter, just as I promised. I do hope you, dear reader, enjoyed the journey more than Sweeney and Nellie did! ;]

I know that I'm a bit behind on review replies and review reply-replies (yes, that is a word. As of now, at least), but I figured y'all would probably rather have an alert for the new chapter than a little squawking message from yours truly in your inbox. ;] Thank you all for your continued patience and loyalty.

And, as always, reviews are love.


	14. Strange Comforts

_From that day forward, she lived happily ever after. Except for the dying at the end. And the heartbreak in-between.__– Lucius Shepard_

xxx

Sweeney paced back and forth in front of the desk of his new classroom, feeling twenty-two sets of eyes tracking his movements. He was not used to the feeling.

The room contained nearly fifty desks designed to sit one soul each. He was not the only one to use this classroom, so there were supplies other than art-related ones lining the walls. Since this was now his job, the Is authorities funded his class, which meant that all of the materials needed for him to be an educator were provided for. Each of the twenty-two students attending his first class today had a lump of clay sitting on the desk before them as they watched him with expectant gazes.

"So . . . what are we doing today?" a small dark-haired girl piped up.

She shrunk into her seat as he turned a sharp look upon her. "We're making sculptures."

"Okay . . . how?"

He didn't know how – that was the problem. Well, he supposed he knew the basics . . . he had been practicing for the past few circles. That didn't mean he knew how to explain – nevermind _teach_ – it to someone else.

Grabbing an extra chunk of clay, he sat down at the slightly larger desk provided for the teacher. "Watch." And he began to sculpt a tree with solely his right hand (his left wrist, though not in as much pain as it had been, did still smart when moved around too much).

"How are you doing that?" questioned a pudgy boy, prodding at his own piece of clay.

"Just – imitate what I'm doing."

"We don't know what you're doing," the boy replied.

"You should try to instruct us," advised an adolescent girl with a sneer. "Then we might get it."

But how could he instruct when he did not know? How could he teach when he could not explain? Shaping clay, creating something from nothing – it was just something he knew intuitively how to do.

He crushed the beginnings of his tree with a fist. Several of the younger souls jumped.

"Let's start with the basics, shall we?" Sweeney forced himself to say in a calm voice.

Once you know the whole of something – once you have mastered a skill – it becomes much harder to remember how you once learned the task, how to break it down step by step. And so when forced to pull back and remember how you learned, recall each of the agonizing hours spent just learning one piece of the talent, it can be very difficult.

Such was the case with Sweeney. He did his best to teach the basic principles of sculpture, of shaping the clay, of using the chisels and hammers and other assorted tools . . . but it did no good. Either the pupils were too thick to follow his instructions, or they simply were hopeless in the art of sculpture.

In addition to that, many of them were _incredibly_ annoying.

"Mr. _Taaah-ahhhd_." The pudgy boy again. "I don't _understand_."

Willing patience to remain in his possession, Sweeney rose to his feet and strolled over to the boy's desk. "What don't you understand?"

"Any of it."

"Have you been paying attention?"

"Yes."

"Then surely you can be more specific as to what you don't understand."

Whether the boy could or not, Sweeney never found out, for at that moment another pupil called out his name. With a sharp "wait," he stalked over to a young woman – but was distracted when he noticed that one of the paint cans sitting against the far wall had somehow opened, its green, sticky contents spilled onto the floor.

Wordless, Sweeney gestured to the paint spill, then looked around at the other souls, all of whom stared back with blank faces – and one who suddenly was struck with the need to sit on his hands. Under the former barber's unflinching glower, the culprit – an adolescent male – dragged himself out of his chair and skulked over to the paint puddle to mop it up with his already-green-stained hands.

"Mr. _Tahhh-aaahhhd_!" The insufferable, pudgy boy waved his arms in the air as though drowning. "I need your _help_!"

This was shaping up to be the longest two 'hours' of his existence, including all those minutes he had spent waiting for the judge – and that, Sweeney thought as he thumped over to the pudgy boy, was saying something.

xxx

"I had no idea you had befriended a man who regularly brawls in the middle of shops," Anatoly teased as he brushed by Nellie to grab a fresh ale bottle for the customers; he was, she had learned quickly, not always as stiffly polite as he first seemed.

She sighed as she applied the top layer to one of the pies, smoothing it over with her rolling pin. "So the gossip's reached your ears too, then?"

"It's reached _everyone's_ ears, Mrs. Lovett. The people of Is enjoy a good scandal, as does everyone."

"Nellie, dear, call me Nellie." She sighed again. "The fight only happened yesterday, but what with the way these souls are blathering, you'd think it was a bloody legend or something." She stuck the pies in the oven. "So, what've you heard?"

"Just the basics. That other fellow – Turpin, I believe? – provoked Mr. Todd into an altercation, and they both received quite the beating from it. And then, of course, there's all the rumors expanding upon the story. I've heard everything from how the two of them were longtime enemies even in life because of rival businesses – "

"Eh, not as far off as it could've been," Nellie commented.

" – to how the punishment for the both of them, since they 'disturbed the peace,' is to have buckets of excrement poured over their heads – "

She rolled her eyes.

" – to the theory that the fight yesterday was merely a 'cover' for the fact that, in life, the two were clandestine lovers – "

She burst into peals of laughter at that one. "Oh, love," she gasped out between guffaws, clutching at the counter to keep herself from falling over, "that's brilliant, that is . . ."

"Are you two planning on working at all today?" Eloise called over, throwing them each a skeptical look.

"Sorry, dear, sorry," Nellie choked, doing her best to stifle her chuckles. Anatoly smiled at her before dashing over to a customer that had just entered the shop.

She could not have hired two better souls to help out around the shop, Nellie decided to herself as she started on a new cake. _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_ was busier than ever, but with three people managing the business, everything was much easier. With Eloise and Anatoly around, Nellie could focus mostly on baking, while the pair of them delivered the food, collected talent, topped off drinks, and made sure the customers were happy.

"Mrs. Lovett, darling." Lorraine Mathers, one of the few remaining customers sitting at the tables, cupped her hand and twiddled her fingers at Nellie, motioning her over. "You work too hard – all these twelve chord circles . . . why don't you come sit with us for a bit?"

Nellie threw a glimpse at the clock: nearly purple, her closing time. "Oh, very well," she said, taking a seat at Lorraine's table of women.

". . . but I just wonder about the reasons behind it. Don't you?" a woman with a dark-skinned, chiseled face was saying._ What race is this girl? _Nellie couldn't help but muse; she enjoyed guessing where various souls of Is were originally from, these people that she would never had met were it not for death bringing them together. Perhaps India? Arabia? Or maybe she had been one of the natives from America?

"Oh, God. Not this subject again," groaned an elder female with plump features whom Nellie thought looked vaguely familiar. Something in her face . . . her eyes . . . their almond shape, their obsidian shade . . . they were Sweeney's eyes.

_You see Sweeney everywhere, you dunce, even the damn wallpaper Stop overanalyzing._

"What's going on now?" Lorraine asked, taking a sip from her glass of ale.

"Miliani wants to discuss the reasons why our souls ended up on Is," the elder woman drawled, fussing with the chestnut locks she'd pinned up in a loose bun.

"And what's wrong with that?" Nellie replied in cold tones; for whatever reason, she automatically did not like this woman. "It's a natural thing to wonder about, ain't it?"

The woman sized Nellie up. Judging from the sheen of frost in her eyes, the instant dislike was mutual. "I learned long ago not to wonder about what can't be helped, darling. However annoying the phrase is, it's true – it merely is what it is."

"When I was alive," the one called Miliani said quietly, "and mind you, this was about four hundred Earth years ago – but when I was alive, I was raised to believe that the spirits of those who had passed on lingered all around those of us still on Earth at all times . . . watching, guiding, and protecting us. That is not the case on Is. Sometimes I just wonder . . . what the point is. What difference we're making."

"We're _dead_," put in the elder woman. "We're not supposed to be doing anything. Besides, what would we possibly do?"

Lorraine frowned. "I think Miliani has a point. I do agree with you a bit, Doreen." _Doreen._ Nellie knew that name. She must have once met this woman while alive; that would account for her vague familiarity. "I don't think we can do anything that'll make a difference on Earth. But there's got to be a reason for us being here."

Doreen finished the rest of her ale in one swallow as she cast a skeptical eye around at the others. "Well, I'll be damned if anyone knows it."

"I was raised a Christian, myself," Lorraine continued. "I always thought I'd either go to heaven or hell. I didn't really consider that my final resting place would be somewhere else." Her eyes creased. "Do you believe there is a heaven and hell? Or is _this_ all there is?"

"Can't be," Nellie contributed; so engrossed in the conversation, she'd forgotten her own mouth for a while. "There's got to be more afterlives than this. It's like I was told when I first got here – not everyone who dies ends up here, so there must be more to it."

"What if the others no longer have spirits?" Lorraine suggested, wincing as she said it. "Or have been reincarnated?"

Nellie shook her head. "If we've got a place to rest evermore, why wouldn't everyone? That just doesn't make sense, love – "

"_Sense."_ Doreen barked a laugh. "It's been a long time since I've heard anyone actually think they could find some of that around here."

It was then that Nellie realized why she recognized Doreen – and that she hadn't been imagining her resemblance to Sweeney. This was Doreen Rowbottom – formerly Barker – the older sister of Benjamin's father. She'd only met the woman once when she had come for a brief visit. Once had been more than enough even back then.

"_What a stodgy old cow," she mumbles, glowering out the window at the retreating backs of the woman and her little dog._

"_Mrs. Lovett!" the barber reprimands. "I'll not have you talking about my aunt in such a way!" When she spins to face him his features are reproachful, but he can't hide the way his lips are twitching; he's fighting a losing battle with them over whether or not to smile._

"_Well, Mr. Barker," she returns, marching over to the counter, "you're far too much of a gentleman to ever say such things, so I was just doing you a favor and voicing your opinion out loud, is all. Sorry that your own thoughts offended you."_

"_It isn't her fault that she's this way," he tells her solemnly. "My father told me that she lost her elder brother when she was only eight years of age – he came down with scarlet fever, and while tending to him, she unintentionally gave him too much laudanum . . ."_

"_Oh!" she gasps. "Oh, I'd no idea – that's awful . . ." _

_He nods. "She never forgave herself for it. Father says we must always be kind to her; her traumatic past can't be helped."_

_She straightens her spine and shakes her head, glaring in the direction his aunt had disappeared. "The past may not be able to be helped – but the present sure can, darling. So I _still_ say she doesn't have to be such a cow."_

_He's lost; the smile's won. "She's very unpleasant, isn't she?"_

_She snorts. "Love, having it rain when you're planning on going to the park is 'unpleasant.' That woman is nothing short of"_

"This place is too mild to be a punishment," Lorraine mused, winding her finger around the rim of her glass. "But too limited to be 'paradise.'"

"Like I said," said Doreen, lifting her eyes upward as though praying for tolerance of her companions, "there's no use in analyzing it. You won't be able to figure it out, and even if by some miracle you did, it wouldn't do you any good."

"I think there's more to the afterlife too." Without Nellie noticing, Eloise now stood behind her, silently drinking in their conversation. Doreen snorted, but Eloise was undeterred, and went on, "I think Is is a transitional place where souls who are still being judged go temporarily before their final resting place is decided."

"That's a definite possibility," Lorraine murmured.

"And how long have you been dead, girl?" Doreen questioned Eloise. Nellie could have punched her – and probably would have, were it not for the table separating them.

Eloise, however, didn't bat an eye. "Around five hundred years."

Doreen's lip curled. "And you really think that some god has been deliberating that long over where your spirit belongs?"

"Well, I'm sure he's very busy, considering how many people die every day," Eloise returned with not the slightest flinch or dent of confidence in her tone. Even though she could hardly take credit for the child's personality, Nellie swelled with pride at how the girl handled herself with such self-assurance. "What do you think, Anatoly?" she called over.

Anatoly, over by the sink cleaning dishes, shot the group an uncomfortable look, clearing reluctant to be pulled into the tense conversation. "Erm . . . well, I don't give much thought to the why behind it all, frankly."

"There's a sensible lad," Doreen praised.

"C'mon, love," Nellie coaxed him; ever the expert at delivering only half an answer, she could sense that he was not revealing all of his thoughts on the matter. "You must've more to say than that."

"Well . . ." Anatoly shifted from one foot to the other. "I don't much care for the why, as I said . . . but I do sometimes wonder about it . . . I'm waiting for someone to arrive here, you see."

An exasperated puff of air fell from Doreen's lips; it seemed she had lost what little respect she'd had for Anatoly. "Not another one," she bemoaned to no one in particular.

"A girl," said Anatoly, paying Doreen no mind. "I left her behind when I died." Distant memories bowed his lips into a smile. "The most beautiful, kind girl you've ever met. I know we'll be together again one day."

"Do you really?" Doreen sneered. "Tell me, boy – have you not considered the possibility that her soul will wind up in another realm of the afterlife? And even if her spirit did end up here, do you really think she would still love you? That she wouldn't have found and married some other fellow?"

Nellie's blood pounded in her ears as she glared at the elder woman. All of what Doreen said was true, of course – it was not likely that Anatoly and his adolescent sweetheart would ever have a relationship. The chances were slim to none, at best. But what right did that bitch have to so cruelly crush his hopes?

"We were destined to be together," said Anatoly with the same calm assurance he had spoken his former words in.

Doreen rolled her eyes. "Well, if you'll excuse me, dears – " bloated fingers pushed against the table-top as she lumbered to her feet " – I'll be on my way now. It was a pleasure chatting to you. And the food was delicious, Mrs. Lovett."

"Fat cur," Nellie muttered under her breath once Doreen was safely on the other side of the wall, and glanced at Miliani and Lorraine. "Why're you two loitering around with her, anyhow?"

"Somehow, we've given her the impression that we're friends," said Lorraine heavily.

"You poor dears," Nellie sympathized, glancing at the clock. "Well, I don't mean to be rude, but I should be going too, seeing as it's just about supper time." And today had been her former tenant's first art class. Gauging by how much he _loved_ new experiences and socializing with others, she figured that he would probably appreciate a good meal tonight. And a bottle of gin. Or two. She knew shewould.

The two females bid her good-bye and left _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_. Stretching her arms wide, Nellie got to her feet and meandered over to Anatoly and Eloise, who had resumed the task of washing dishes. "That's enough for today, loves. We'll get the rest in the morning before opening up. Sorry about how you were treated by that woman, by the way."

"Don't be sorry, Mrs. Lovett. It's not your fault that she has no manners," Eloise replied haughtily.

"Well, I shouldn't've subjected the two of you to that treatment – if we'd been anywhere else, I would've knocked her senseless, but now that I know how tight security is 'round here . . ."

"It's fine," Anatoly told her. "If I let comments of that nature bother me, I would never be able to get out of bed each circle."

"She's not the first one to make fun of you and this girl of yours, then?" Nellie questioned.

He rolled his eyes. "Hardly."

"Y'know, love," said Nellie, reaching out to squeeze his hand, "I don't mean to bring up a sore subject or anything, but . . . well, that old toad did have good points. I mean – it's very likely that your lass won't end up on Is – and even if she does – she could've very well found herself a new man – "

Anatoly pulled his hand away from hers, shaking his head and smiling as though _she _were acting naive and not he. "Mrs. Lovett, ever since my spirit ended up here, I've looked for her every circle. I don't like to waste time – I don't spend chord upon chord every circle walking through walls thinking her name – but each morning, as soon as I tidy up, I step through the wall while thinking her name. Just once each circle, to see if she has come yet. Because eventually she will."

Nellie admired the boy's faith, she really did . . . but she knew he was setting himself up for inevitable disappointment. Life nor death ever happen the way we plan them to. She couldn't bear to stand by idly and watch him become crushed under the weight of fallen dreams; she had to try and reach him. "And if she shows up and isn't as you remember her? Or if she doesn't ever come at all?"

Anatoly smiled again – calm, reassured, in love. "She will."

Nellie frowned. The boy was completely drunk on his dreams and refused to allow logic to meddle with them. The disappointment was only going to be greater in the end if he kept this up; she'd learned that the hard way`

_("by the sea, Mr. Todd")_

but it was clear that whatever she said to him wouldn't make a difference.

"As you say, love," she sighed.

xxx

He paced across the floor, back and forth, back and forth, feet charged with anger. His first class was over – finally – and he had returned to his shop. But it wasn't over. Far from it. He still had more classes to teach; he wasn't going to be let off from his 'punishment' just because he wasn't happy with the situation.

That bastard . . .

_He daydreams about how he is to do it over and over again. It shall not be brief, that is for certain. No, the judge's death will last for a long, long time, and blood will pour from his throat like a thousand crimson waterfalls from each of the well-placed slits his razor will make, and the judge will taste his murderer's name on his lips just before he gasps his last breath –_

As though being summoned by Sweeney's thoughts, Turpin suddenly stood in his shop, and nodded in acknowledgement when their eyes collided. "Good evening, sir."

Sweeney made no movement. Why was he back in here? There was nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said. And all that would come from another fight would be another punishment, and Turpin wouldn't want that, seeing as Sweeney knew he was currently being made to work as a farmer – a position that most definitely would irritate and disgrace the once mighty man. Unless he had gotten out of it? Snaked away from justice just as he had so many times before? But even so, he couldn't expect to get away with such tactics forever on Is. Maybe he hadn't come to pick a fight? Why else would he come though? Perhaps –

Turpin's voice squeezed between his streaming thoughts. "You needn't look so perturbed. I'm only here to apologize."

"You – " Sweeney couldn't manage to articulate anything further; _apologize?_

Turpin continued as though there had been no ungraceful interruption. "Yes. I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other circle. I did not mean to exhibit such . . . unrefined behavior."

The judge folded his hands together in front of him as though in an upside-down prayer. Sweeney, still in shock, could not speak, and so Turpin merely went on.

"I was shaken. Wouldn't you be too, if you met your murderer in the afterlife? Reacting hostilely . . . I did not intend to. My emotions, however, bested me in that moment." His feet shifted, eyes flickering with an emotion the ex-barber couldn't read.

"But I do not wish to dwell upon that," said Turpin. "I came to you today with a proposal, of sorts. I believe that the pair of us should let our past rest in its grave" – he smiled a little – "so to speak, and agree to behave in more civil terms when associating with one another in the future. What do you say, Mr. Todd?"

"Brought you some dinner, love," a new voice trilled through the room.

When had he become so bloody popular? he was left to wonder vaguely, still too crowded with jumping emotions and thoughts to speak.

Lovett's backside came into view through the wall, and even without facing them he could see her arms laden with enough food to serve an army. "And I grabbed a few bottles of gin too, figured that you could – " She stopped speaking when she turned around.

"Mrs. Lovett," Turpin intoned smoothly, the only one seemingly not ruffled by the situation at hand. Lovett's eyes whipped back and forth between he and Sweeney, trying to decipher the circumstances "Pleasure to see you again."

Her mouth moved to parody a smile as she curtsied, and he had to admire her ability to appear graceful even despite the platter of spinach quiche and the two gin bottles her arms embraced. "Likewise, _my lord_. I hope I did not interrupt – "

"No, Mr. Todd and I were just finishing." Turpin backed towards the wall. "Think on what I have said, won't you, Mr. Todd? I do strongly think it is the best course of action. Take care, Mrs. Lovett – Mr. Todd."

"What was that all about?" Mrs. Lovett demanded the instant Turpin had disappeared. "What was he doing in here? What'd he say? There's no blood on the floor or your face, which I s'pose is good news, but what happened? Mr. Todd? _Mr. Todd_!"

Finally becoming conscious of the fact that he had a body, a voice, Sweeney slashed his eyes to her once before turning away and pacing towards the far wall. "What?"

"For God's sake, Mr. T! What the bloody hell was that all about?"

He sat down on the stool next to his potter's wheel, running a finger along its rim and then its gentle grooves. "How should I know? He came to see me, not the other way around."

"Well, what did he say? What'd he want?"

"To apologize." His lips felt funny forming the words. He rubbed his left wrist. "For how he acted the other day. Said we should put our past behind us and move on."

"Apologize? Apologize for how he acted? Move on?" Lovett parroted his words; out of his peripheral vision he registered her swarming towards their usual dining table and dumping the contents in her arms upon it, before striding nearer to stand over him. "That doesn't make sense. That doesn't make sense at all. He never apologizes. I s'pose death can change people like any other traumatic experience – but not him. Not like that. It doesn't make sense.

"He's plotting something," she declared suddenly. "He's got something up his sleeve."

"My dear, what could he possibly be plotting? In case it has escaped your attention, we're dead. Neither of us can harm the other any further."

"I don't know. I've got no idea what sort of stunt he's trying to pull." He glanced up at her now; her eyes were wide, full, laden with too many thoughts and absolute conviction that she was right. "But he's scheming something, I'll tell you that much."

Sweeney rolled his eyes.

Lovett's finger wagged in his face, cheeks crimsoning. "Don't you scoff at me. I'm right – he's up to something, you just wait and see. I know a man with a mission when I see one, and good Lord, he has definitely got an agenda . . ."

When she received only another derisive expression, she went on, face flushing an even deeper shade of red, "Fine – fine, Mr. Todd. We'll see who's right soon enough."

"We will," he agreed.

"You still trying to find Lucy every morning?" she barked without warning, as though not content with an argument unless they were warring over several subjects at once.

He looked at her, unfighting and undefending, not believing that he had anything to hide. "Yes."

Lovett exhaled and marched back towards the table, dividing up the quiche she'd made and pouring them each a generous amount of gin. "She's not here, Mr. T. And the sooner you finally come to terms with what_ is_ and what_ isn't_ – oh, don't glare at me like that – "

He raised his eyebrows; her back was to him: how did she know he was glaring?

" – I'm sick of all the is and isn't sayings too, but that doesn't make 'em less true . . . anyhow, the sooner you come to terms with 'em, the happier you'll be."

He arched an eyebrow at her when she turned back towards him: as if happiness was still an 'is' here. Her anger collapsed and she sighed.

"So anyway – " she handed him a plate and glass as he moseyed over to her " – how was your first art class?"

"Horrible."

"Mmm, I thought so." She settled at the table and starched a smile upon her face. "But don't worry, I'm sure things can only get better from here, eh? C'mon, love, eat up – food isn't made to be _stared_ at."

xxx

When he arrived in the classroom to teach his second art class, only a single person sat within the sea of desks.

Sweeney's stomach sank to his feet in dread: had he scared everyone off already? Not that he cared if he scared these pathetic souls, mind – but he did need to fulfill this silly community service obligation, and if he scared away all potential students, that couldn't happen. Much as he loathed the idea of teaching, it was certainly preferred to the methods the Is government resorted to when people did not attempt to reform: torture, or pain, or being locked away for a literal eternity . . .

He could not bear any more suffering or confinement without breaking.

"Where is everyone?" Sweeney growled to his single pupil: that pesky, pudgy boy again.

The boy shrugged and sighed. "They're all at a football game. Sports events are pretty popular here. But I don't like football, so these circles are always really boring for me. I'm glad that you're here, though. Now I have someplace to go." The boy's forehead creased. "You _are_ still going to teach even with only me here, right?"

A muscle in Sweeney's jaw clenched as he bit back his instinctual answer.

_Think of the consequences if you don't. Think of the reward: think of the fires that will end your existence and end your pain and end having to deal with pudgy idiots like this one._

"Yes," he grumbled, and they spent the proceeding hour attempting to again form a pinch pot, Sweeney sitting in the seat to the boy's right, demonstrating and aiding as necessary (which meant every second). Sweeney was thankful that he had clay between his hands to strangle into shape, else his hands would have been strangling something else in the room with rather more flesh.

About midway through the class, Lovett toddled into the room, a tray of pralines in her hands and a bored expression on her face.

"There's absolutely no one wandering around today," she announced forlornly – as though such a fact needed announcing, Sweeney thought, rolling his eyes. She flopped down atop the desk to the left of the pudgy boy's and sighed. "Business hasn't been this slow since before I died and I'm just not used to an empty shop anymore. I guess that's one nice thing about death – finally finding a huge audience for your goods, I mean – people what never would've ever had the chance to eat them before. Talk about blessings in disguise, eh?"

"How do you expect to make a pot without looking at it?" Sweeney barked at the boy, when he noticed that the child's eyes were straying to the cookies; flushing, the boy returned his focus to the lumpy clay between his palms.

Lovett, however, instantly softened and held the tray of cookies out. "Would you like one, love?"

The pudgy boy snatched the cookie without hesitation and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, as though fearing she'd change her mind if he deliberated too long. He mumbled a "thank you" through his mouthful, spraying cookies crumbs into his mound of clay. Sweeney winced and averted his gaze. Lovett, however, beamed and offered the boy another.

He would never understand the woman. Not even if he spent all the rest of his eternity with her.

"And football, of all things," said Lovett, picking up her babble as seamlessly as though she had never stopped. "Do all the souls even know what that is? I mean, the way we all come from so many different places and such?" She took a praline and bit off an edge. "I guess they can learn, though. Must be quite exciting, attending events like that – learning all these new customs and meeting all these different people from everywhere . . ."

Sweeney tensed and his nails bit into the boy's clay, fearing that she would declare that she wanted to attend the game too, and had come to his classroom to drag him out to this football game. But she didn't: she merely continued babbling about the many cultures on Is, how amazing it was that such a conglomeration of nationalities and religions and groups blended so easily. He relaxed and resumed working on the boy's pot, kneading out his fingernail marks.

He didn't know why, upon reflection, he'd been worried. Despite she seemingly being an extrovert, in truth she was just as introverted as he, just as reluctant to form relationships of any nature, just as private and wary of prolonged communication with anyone. Just as reluctant to extend anyone her trust, latching onto a person like a parasite when she dared to finally do so. . . . It was how they had spent their lives, the two of them, and it would be how they spent their deaths. Circumstances could change, but they never would.

And despite being forced to exist in a realm of discomfort and pain and foreign ways – the way his ears burned at her refusal to shut up, and the way his hands gripped far too tight upon the clay out of frustration as the pudgy boy continued to stuff his face with cookies rather than vainly attempt to make a pot, and the way revenge upon Turpin could never be fully extracted – that such familiarity could still exist was strangely comforting.

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>though I would like to take full credit for Aunt Doreen, I can't; she is mentioned briefly in the original ST film script. Nellie talks about her after seeing Pirelli abuse Toby:

"_Suppose it's just me gentle heart, but I do hate to see a boy treated like that, no better than your Aunt Doreen's dog."_

Well, naturally, I wanted to know more about the woman, since she sounded so delightful. ;]

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Hello again, lovies! Thank you for joining me for yet another chapter. I do hope you enjoyed it.

I have been getting a number of reviews and PMs lately all worded, more or less, in the same manner. I've answered all of these individually, but just in case I have silent readers wondering the same thing - or just in case some of you need to hear it again for reassurance ;D - I want to make this public.

The question is usually along the lines of, _"Are Sweeney and Nellie EVER going to start a relationship?"_

Now, as most of you know, I detest spoilers, whether for someone else's story or my own. But, c'mon, guys. Why would I put this story in the romance category if it WASN'T a romance story? I realize times's hard and all that, but have a li'l faith in me and my ability to categorize my own stories, won't you? xD

-ahem- And that is really all I have to say about that. ^^;;

Reviews are, and shall always remain, love.


	15. If You Only Knew

_Maybe this world is another planet's Hell. – Aldous Huxley_

xxx

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

"Oh no, I'm just browsing," Nellie replied. "You've got such a lovely selection here – I've never even seen all of these plants before!"

"English, aren't you?" the shop girl inquired, clearly recognizing her accent, nodding her head when Nellie affirmed this. "Yes, well, we've got flowers from all over the world here. Take your time looking around."

"Will do, love, thanks." She continued strolling among the wickers bursting with flowers, stopping every now and then to smell a bud or finger a petal, placing nearly one of every kind into her basket, among them a yellow blossom with brown spots, and thousands of orange tubes sprouting from a single stem, and a pure white lily rimmed with crimson . . .

_Hiding emotions by purchasing new things, are we?_

She ground her teeth together as what that seamstress, Mademoiselle Gaspard, had spoken to her drifted without permission to the forefront of her mind. She was certainly _not_ trying to conceal _anything_ by making purchases. She was a woman, and women liked to shop; what was wrong with that? Still, the words pressed against her temples, coated her mind – _purchasing new things_ – _hiding emotions_ – _hiding_ – and she found herself putting away some of the flowers she'd collected in her basket.

_It's not because of what that old cow said. There's just no point in throwing away money even if you have a lot of it, is there?_

_("eminently practical and yet")_

"Nellie?"

She started and turned around, brow knitting when she saw a man approaching her. He had thick dark hair – though not nearly as thick and dark as her barber's – atop his head, and though not fat, his shoulders were broad, the makings of a potbelly around his middle. She did not know him, but there was something undeniably familiar about him . . . and he knew her name . . .

"It _is_ you," he voiced in astonishment as her head twisted towards him, a grin breaking upon his round face, and before she could speak, he pulled her to him in a hug.

And that – with his arms encircling her, with his chest crushing her face – that was when she knew.

"_Albert?"_

Her former husband – or was he _still _her husband, now that they were reunited in death? was she no longer a widow? and did that mean she was an adulterer (not that one more sin would make a difference on her long list of them)? – drew away from her, keeping his hands on her upper arms, still smiling. "Sorry – forgot that I look a bit different than I used to."

Her wide eyes scoured over his form; never had she seen him looking so thin, so young, not even in the earliest days of their marriage. "Wh-what happened?"

Albert Lovett shrugged, dropping his hands from her arms. "I don't know, to be honest. This is just how I looked when I showed up on Is. Apparently it's not uncommon, to look an age that you were not upon dying. And I'm certainly not complaining; having a twenty year old's body again is great." Now his eyes creased. "You're still looking fairly young yourself, Nell – "

"Oh, what a charmer you've become." She knew very well how much she'd aged, the physical imprints the hard years had left on her.

" – was this how old you were when you died?"

"Yes," she returned, refusing to let her gaze on him flinch.

The lines under his eyes creased further, and he suddenly looked much older than twenty. Knowing what he was about to ask and not wanting to answer it, Nellie swept an airy hand into the air and said, "But that's neither here nor there, love. How've you been – "

She stopped as a young woman with refined features and a high brow approached, a fiery look upon her face as though Nellie was somehow challenging her. Nellie stared back, confused. Why the animosity? They'd never met before.

The woman moved closer until she stood beside Albert, and then she linked her arm with his, keeping her eyes on Nellie all the while. Holding out the arm not currently entwined with Albert's, the woman pronounced, "How do you do. I'm Mrs. Lovett."

As pathetic and penny-dreadful-damsel as she knew the action was, Nellie could not help her mouth from falling open.

Albert had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Oh – erm – Reyna – this is Nellie – "

It were as though the temperature in the room rocketed up a thousand degrees: the guarded, frosty expression melted right off the woman's face.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Reyna Lovett, unlooping her limb from Albert's and reaching out for Nellie's hands, shock and apparent horror at herself molding her face into a pose nearly unrecognizable from the female who'd been glowering at the baker mere ticks before. "If I'd known – I thought you were trying to – Nellie, yes, Nellie – I've heard all about you, of course, from Albert . . ."

Nellie recovered the ability to speak and smiled. "Heard all about me, have you? Well, can't say the same about you, I'm afraid!" she jested, managing to ease a sliver of unease from Reyna's features. "I'd no idea it was possible to marry in the afterlife – they've got priests and whatnot wandering 'round, then?"

"Yes, and most of them are very bored," put in Albert, also attempting to alleviate the tension, "so the occasional wedding really brightens their circle."

Nellie chuckled. "Well, congratulations, the both of you – I wish you all the best, dears." She glanced at the clock. "Why, would you look at the time! I don't mean to be rude, but I've got to be on my way – I'm sure our paths will cross again, eh?"

They nodded and smiled and gave their own parting words to her in return, and then Nellie bustled towards the shop girl to pay for her purchases. Once that was done, she made a beeline for the door, gripping her basket with a vicious need that turned her knuckles white as she stalked through the corridors.

_Why are you walking through the halls, Lovett? You could just walk through the wall and be back at your room in a flash._

And, well, yes, she could. But these thoughts did not stop her from continuing on, stomping and turning along the veering hallways. There was something – if not comforting – at least numbing in the way her feet set a monotone against the ground, a gentle rhythm to her throbbing head (g_ood God, you're becoming just like _him_)_.

Now that Albert had taken a new lady, did that mean that she was no longer a Lovett? That she was to resume using Marrell, her maiden name? She couldn't identify with that name anymore; little Nellie Marrell was a girl of the past. Her door on Is declared her last name to be Lovett, so that must mean it was still her official name. And judging from the way Albert and Reyna were around each other – the way they seemed to know one another so well, the gentle ease between them – they'd been married for a while in the afterlife . . .

It wasn't as though she had ever loved Albert, not really. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, of practicality – for what was more convenient and practical than having a lower class butcher and a lower class pie-maker wed? She'd been fond of him, and he her, and their marrying had served its intended purpose of providing companionship and business on both ends. It had been an ideal match in every way, except for its absence of love.

So what was she so discombobulated for?

Because, fool that she was even in the afterlife, she had not considered that she would ever see Albert again. Because she had not expected to find another woman now bearing his name – bearing _her_ name. Because she had not realized that life after death could contain such significance, that things such as weddings were still possible –

_He would never agree. You know that._

_Nevermind that he wouldn't agree – _you_ would never agree either. Sweet Jesus, Eleanor, when are you going to get it through your head that he murdered you? Besides, you don't want that anymore anyhow, so what difference does it make, hmm?_

Twisting away from those dangerous thoughts, Nellie discovered that, even despite the many bends and detours in the Is layout, she had wandered all the way back to her room. A bundle wrapped in brown paper sat at the doorstep. Bending over, she realized it was from Mademoiselle Gaspard.

_Stupid woman. What if someone else passing by this hall had taken it?_

Forgetting her annoyance – as well as her discomposure – in her sudden excitement of at last being able to change out of these fashionless black robes, she snatched at the bundle and carried it into her room. She threw the parcel onto her bed and then attacked the paper with her hands, tearing it to pieces and scattering the wrappings around the room . . .

Leaving her robbed of air.

Almost as though afraid to destroy it with her touch, her fingertips skimmed the fabric, awed by its grace, its smoothness, its glory. Gaining confidence, she took the dress in both hands and lifted it into the air, hardly noticing Sweeney's suit, which lay beneath. Mademoiselle Gaspard may have been a right little pig, but her skills as a seamstress could not be denied. The dress was everything she had wanted it to be – more than she had wanted it to be – from the soft, silky ripple of the blood-red fabric; to the delicate cut of the neckline and bodice, trimmed with a crimson lace that off-set the brighter tone of the rest; to the way the skirt pooled out, full and wide, red lace peeping out like shy eyes in the dark from underneath the outer layer of silk . . .

_Beautiful._

Not even the fine dresses she had begun to buy during her last year on Earth had been this gorgeous, nor this colorful. It wasn't that she had anything against color . . . black just suited her, she felt. But who was to say she couldn't wear vibrant hues in death, simply because she had not in life?

Overcome with the sudden desire to try the dress on, she flung off her clothes, so distracted by enthusiasm that she absently tossed off her undergarments while at it. She became aware of this fact as she glanced into the full-length mirror (another of the harvests from her shopping) propped against the wall while pulling the red dress towards her. Nellie rolled her eyes at the ease in which she was distracted . . . yet found she could not look away from her naked reflection . . .

Not conscious of her movement, she lifted herself onto her feet and drifted towards the mirror, the dress falling from her slack grip back upon the bed. Her reflection gazed at her, sweeping from the snarled mass she called hair all the way down to her bony feet, taking in each feature, each crevice, each curve, each everything . . .

She knew what her unclothed body looked liked, of course she did; she had seen herself in a mirror before. But not for a long while. Not since before she had passed away. Not since

"_Why don't we replace this mirror, love?" she asks as he stands before it. She approaches him, resting her hands on each of his upper arms as she comes to stand behind him. _

_She looks at their figures in the mirror. Their images are distorted, fractured by the splints in the glass; but it suits them, somehow, it emulates the warped state they've both been shredded into, the destruction upon themselves and one another they have rent._

"_Love?" she echoes herself, and rests her chin on his shoulder. "What d'you say? How about we get a new mirror?"_

_His eyes meet hers in the reflection. "What for?"_

"_What for? You fool, it's broken, can't you see?"_

_Something that might be his own take on a smile flits across his face. "What isn't broken, my dear?" he whispers. _

_Her heart melts, opens up and bleeds, and he must feel it since her chest is pressed against his back, must feel the dampness seeping through his shirt and into his skin; and then they meet in a desperate embrace, limbs tangling, mouths melding, clothes ripping, sinking to the floor in unison as though some unspoken agreement, some silent understanding – _

then.

She wove a path along her face and down her shoulder with her fingertips. So unblemished, so uncharred . . . why was it that souls did not carry any of the marks that identified how they had died? She could still feel the flames ravishing her whenever her thoughts strayed to that moment, yet her body appeared just as it had before he had intimately acquainted her with fire . . .

As she stood there, vaguely contemplating her bare form, the former barber chose that moment to step through the wall and into her room.

From her throat was yanked a startled gasp. "Mr. Todd!" She lunged for her robes that were puddled on the ground and held them in front of her physique like a curtain.

She didn't know what made her respond like that to his unexpected arrival, upon brief reflection. God knew the man had seen her naked before – many times. It wasn't as though she really had reason to hide.

Sweeney, however, had angled his body to the side, attention captured by his bandaged wrist. "I'm sorry – that is, I didn't realize . . . I'll wait outside . . ."

Was Sweeney Todd actually flustered? And by her nudity, no less. She felt a momentary urge to laugh, but it was stifled by a blanket of sadness: this was what the two of them – what their relationship, however unconventional and twisted it once was – had been reduced to.

"No need to go outside," she told him, "I'll be ready in an instant." He stood, back erect, still fascinated by his dislocated wrist, while she pulled the robes over her head. "Alright, then." She moved towards him. Now that she was over her mollification, she had to wonder what he was doing here. It was always she who was seeking him out, not the other way around. Well, not always

" – _if I could keep her here for an hour or two . . ." the sailor finally ceases his chatter._

_Her eyes are fastened on the barber, heart welling with joy; this is what he wants, what he's waited for, his dear daughter practically being handed to him – so why is he hesitating, why is he taking so long to agree to the boy?_

_The barber looks up at her then – the merest flick of his dark eyes in her direction – but it's enough for her to see the utter confusion he has been thrust into, to see that he's lost, to see that he needs her, just as she knows he does, just as _he_ knows he does, even if he'll never say it out loud._

"_Bring her here, love," she says_

but certainly most of the time.

"What's going on, Mr. T?" He didn't seem to hear her. "Mr. Todd?" She laid a hand against his shoulder, which managed to stir him from whatever reverie he'd been sunk in.

"The judge."

She held back her sigh. "What about him?"

Sweeney pulled away from her grasp to pace to the far side of the room. Her eyes darkened at the familiar motion – but there were, of course, no windows for him to become lost in here, merely the gray cobbled grooves of the wall.

"Mr. Todd." She marched to him again, standing behind him, peering at his face from over his shoulder. "You came to see me, remember?" She watched the side of his mouth shift at that. "Now. Tell me what's bothering you."

The barber's eyes flashed with anger, then cooled – only to be just as rapidly heated with ire again – and then replaced with neutrality – again and again and again, as though he were struggling with himself for control.

"He came into my shop again," he said. "Just a few points ago."

Nellie's eyebrows nearly shot up to her hairline. "Really? What for?"

"Wanted to buy one of my pots."

"Oh, bollocks!" she snapped, making him start. "The bloody – he wants no such thing – "

He turned towards her, contemplating a spot above her shoulder. "I know that, Mrs. Lovett. But he bought one anyway."

"I told you!" she began to rant. "I told you – didn't I tell you? He's up to something, he's trying to pull some – "

"We've been over this before, pet." Now their gazes were united. "There's nothing he can do here."

Nellie shook her head. "You just watch, Mr. Todd. When you least expect it that viper's going to sneak up on you and . . ."

In her prolonged pause, Sweeney extended her a curved eyebrow, eyes glittering. "And _what_, my dear?"

Suddenly furious – though she wasn't sure if it was at him or herself – she stomped to the other side of the room before whirling on her heel, glaring at him. "I don't know, alright? I can't bloody read the son of a bitch's mind. But he _is_ planning something." His lip curled, clearly in amusement at her fury – and that only increased it. "And if you knew I was going to say this, then why'd you come in here to tell me in the first place?"

Her next words were an accusation as well as a reply to her own question: "You wanted to tell me."

_You wanted to let me in again._

The sneer was gone. "I thought you would want to know."

Agitated, she began to futz around the room: picking up the flowers she'd bought at the market and replacing them in their basket, smoothing out her new dress, taking his suit and handing it to him. "Here. You can't wear it when walking through walls, but if ever you want to take off these nightgown things . . ."

He took the suit from her without comment, gaze already far away, brooding. Seeing as he did not want to speak further – and seeing as she did not feel like coddling him in his moody state – Nellie moved towards the door, ready to open it and show him out.

Sweeney's voice dropped like a soft cut against her skin and stilled her hand just as it was reaching for the doorknob:

"I thought killing that man would take him out of my life."

She turned to face him. He was still not looking at her, but unlike herself the man didn't hold one-sided conversations, so she knew his words were directed – however vaguely – at her.

"This is what you'd call life, love?" Nellie joked. When the corners of his mouth did not so much as twitch in the remembrance of a smile, her forced jesting faded, and she turned solemn. "You did what you set out to do. You killed him. You got your revenge."

Sweeney slanted his head in agreement of her words, though he offered none of his own.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sixteen reviews were left for chapter fourteen! That's a new record, dear readers. I'm completely baffled and humbled and really have no idea what else to say (which, as you can probably tell from the length of this story, is usually not a problem for me at all, LOL).

So . . . can we beat the record? Can we get seventeen reviews for this chapter? -gently nudges her many silent readers- I do see when you add this story to your alerts and/or favorites list, you know . . . ;]

Because, after all, reviews are love.


	16. Daisies, Drinks, and Dreams

_One can no more prevent the mind from returning to an idea than the sea from returning to a shore. In the case of the sailor, this is called a tide; in the case of the guilty, it is called remorse. – Victor Hugo_

xxx

Sweeney Todd had been dead for two years.

Not that Earth years mattered on Is – except in terms of his bargain with Officer Reyna Lovett.

Except in terms of his two year anniversary with death. It was something of a momentous occasion, or felt as though it should be, at least.

Mouth tight, he chiseled at the clay body of his eagle.

He shouldn't even be privy to such information, technically; most of the normal spirits on Is weren't. His special deal with Officer Reyna Lovett, however, also gave him a few special privileges, namely access to her Earth calendar. And, though he still had not been able to figure out what most of the assorted lines and letters on her calendar meant, he had figured out enough: red initials in a corner meant a death day, blue initials in a corner meant a special agreement or engagement, and black 'x's over a whole square meant that Earth day had passed.

He guided his knife upward, working at the wings.

He had been dead for two years, as he had discovered this morning. Two Earth years and nine Earth days, to be precise. He had been dead for two years and still did not know how to properly be dead. He had gone without killing a single customer for two years and still wondered what would happen if he were to create a wound. He had taken revenge on Turpin two years ago and yet remained haunted by him.

He had killed Lucy two years ago and still had not found her spirit in the hereafter – had not been able to even apologize to the woman for whose forgiveness he would never dare ask, no, he would never ask that which she could not give and he did not deserve – but at least let him see her, at least let him hold her, love her . . .

"Breakfast, Mr. T!" Lovett called, a jaunty spring in her step as she entered the room. From under his brow he glimpsed her flitting over to the table in the corner of his shop and setting down whatever meatless dish she was going to attempt to lure him into eating today. "Well, c'mon, love. That statue that you're working on – it's gorgeous, by the way – can certainly wait until after you've eaten, hmm? Best to not start each circle on an empty stomach."

He stood and shuffled over to her, watching her with furtive, curious eyes. Though apparently not furtive enough.

"What?" she asked, catching his gaze.

Sweeney shook his head and took the bowl of porridge she was holding with his undamaged hand, then sat down across from her. He stirred the spoon around the dish, its silver sheen glinting. Lovett was acting no different around him than she usually did. He didn't know how he had expected her to behave today, but . . . well. Last night had been strange – what with he bursting into her bedroom during a moment of utter blind panic – what with she not wearing anything – what with them both nearly treading into the dangerous waters of the past several times . . .

He couldn't explain in logical terms why he had run to her after Turpin had come to visit _Sweeney Todd's Gallery_ for a third time. One moment he was standing in his shop, bewildered and astray and at a loss for what to do – and the next, he had walked through the wall and into Lovett's room. Reflexively. Involuntarily. Instinctively.

Such instincts had to go away.

Still. She was acting just as she always did as she ate her own porridge, leaned back in her chair so far it nearly stood on its two hind legs, brushed a hand against a stray lock of hair as it kissed her eyelids, blathered on about God only knew what. She was behaving entirely normal. On the other hand, why was he surprised? Whatever else he thought of her, there was no denying that Mrs. Lovett was a strong woman.

"Mr. Todd! Are you even listening to me?"

He took his eyes away from his spoon and looked up at her. "Yes."

She huffed to express her disbelief at this statement. "I asked you a question, Mr. T. Planning on answering it anytime soon?"

"Hmm."

"Bloody stupid . . ." A storm of muttered phrases fell from her lips as she began to clean up their breakfast things. At last she turned to face him again, pointing to a pile of flowers on the table in front of him that he somehow had failed to notice before. "I bought some flowers yesterday. Put most of them around my shop and a few in my room, but I had some extra, and I was wondering if you'd like those? They could really brighten this place up."

There were five of them laying on the table, five daisies. Her favorites were gillyflowers; why had she not bought those? _Why the hell does it matter to you?_ He was not very fond of flowers himself. They were tinged with acrid memories from that day at the flower market, that day when two guards under Judge Turpin's orders had swooped upon him and thrown him into Newgate . . .

"Well, I'll take that for no, then." Lovett scooped the flowers into her arm. "I'll see you at cyan, love."

Daisies had always reminded him of Lucy; the yellow center so like her hair, the unflawed white petals so like her soul. _Until the bastard stole that away from her. . . . _She had liked daisies. He remembered watching her make daisies chains at the park, her laughter as he put his own clumsy attempts on the top of her head like a crown. Daisies were supposed to represent innocence. Yes, that was fitting. Very fitting.

_She beams at him, young and vibrant, as she walks across the parlor, a bouquet of daisies in her hand. _

"_They're very beautiful, don't you think?" she asks aloud to no one in particular._

_She sets them in a vase upon the mantel. She considers the flowers for a moment, then plucks one from the vase and tucks it behind her ear, smoothing her hair so it falls just so around the flower beside her temple._

"What?" Lovett, left foot raised in the air, about to step through the wall, stared at him as though there was an elephant on his head. "What'd you say?"

He only looked at her.

"What did you say?" she repeated. Her forehead rumpled. "It sounded like – something about putting the flower – in my – ?"

_Oh God._ Had he spoken out loud? He cursed himself for his weakness. "I said nothing."

Lovett's head turned side to side, once, twice. "No . . . you said something – I just don't think I heard right – " She fastened her eyes on him again as though hoping to unlock his mind, his soul, with her gaze; he studied the tabletop. The air stilled for a moment, then from his peripheral vision he saw her separate one of the flowers in her hands from the bunch, contemplate it, and stow its stem around the crook of her ear.

Her eyes charred against his skin again, but he ignored them as he rose from the chair and ambled over to his shop door, flipped the sign to 'open,' then took a seat at the table to continue working on his sculpture.

"I'll see you in a few chords, Mr. Todd," she finally said – and it was only after she left that Sweeney realized the woman from his memory was not a young Lucy Barker, but a young Eleanor Lovett.

xxx

"The usual, I take it?" asked Nellie as she bustled over to a middle-aged woman seated at one of her tables.

The woman nodded, slowly rotating a fountain pen between ink-stained fingers. Nellie had never had a prolonged conversation with this customer, but she nonetheless showed up at _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium _quite often, and usually stayed the grand majority of the circle too, sitting at the table directly in the middle of the room. Sometimes she wrote in the journal she always had in front of her, but more often than not, she struck up conversations with the customers around her, twiddling her pen all the while.

"Yes," she told Nellie, "thank you."

"I know it's not my place to ask, dear," said Nellie when she returned with the woman's typical order of a cup of coffee and a blueberry scone, "but why don't you ever order anything else off my menu? Speaking frankly, my scones're hardly the best things on my menu. I always find them pretty dry, really."

The woman smiled and picked up her scone. "Then I pity you, Mrs. Lovett. You shall never know what a treasure of a food you have created." She bit into the scone, eyes still bright upon Nellie's as she chewed and swallowed. "Now, I know it's not _my_ place to ask, but why don't you ever take a circle off? Even on the circles I don't come here – which is the grand majority of them, mind – you are still working, serving others – never taking any time for yourself."

"This _is_ time for myself," said Nellie, flushing hot; the other customers that she needed to tend to were forgotten. "I'm happiest when I'm busy in my kitchen. I enjoy making and baking, experimenting, chatting with my customers – watching their satisfaction as they eat what I've made 'em . . ."

The right side of the woman's mouth pulled into a smile; the left side remained straight, neutral, as though it could not remember how. "I made it my lifetime occupation to just watch, my dear."

"And just who're you to criticize how I live – die – oh, hell – " Nellie groaned and threw up her hands " – how I spend my afterlife?"

The left side of her mouth curled upward, mirroring its right side. She was really a very lovely lady, Nellie noted with disgust as she observed the woman's smile. Why were the pretty women always the ones with the stupidest or ugliest souls?

"I'm not criticizing anything, Mrs. Lovett," she said. "I'm just sharing what I've watched for many circles."

"That's what you do with all those scribbles in your diary, then?" accused Nellie, jabbing a finger at the woman's notebook. "Record all that you 'watch' so's you can spout nonsense 'bout what you don't understand?"

The woman shrugged. "Sometimes I write down what I see. Sometimes I write down what I don't see. That is, after all, how the best fiction authors survive."

A starving writer. Well, that would explain why the woman liked to lollygag around in Nellie's shop all day nursing only a single cup of coffee and one of her cheapest pastries. "Indeed? And what d'you write?"

"Gothic fiction is what I believe they've termed it on Earth, though I've never adored labels much. On Is, one must build their literary reputation anew – it's impossible to bring books published on Earth into the spirit world, so entirely new tombs must be written. It's the blessing and the curse to being an artist, I suppose – a blessing in the sense that I've greatly expanded my genres, as well as the languages my books are published in. I have more readers now than ever before because of it, though, to be frank, I had a sizeable reading group when I was alive too – "

"What did you say your name was?" Nellie cut in.

"I didn't say. But my name is Ann Radcliffe."

Nellie lost the ability to stand and, had Ann Radcliffe not swiftly drawn a chair beneath the baker, her rear would have smacked against the floor.

"Radcliffe – you're – oh God – so sorry about earlier, me being rude – I didn't – love your books – read them all – but you've got new ones out now, in the afterlife, you say? – so I s'pose I haven't read them all – "

"Slow down, Mrs. Lovett," said Ann with a laugh. "It's quite all right. I'm more than used to being praised – and, likewise, I'm more than used to being denounced."

Nellie's mouth continued to shape around syllables, silently now, lost for what more to say; her face remained flushed hot, but out of mortification rather than anger.

"But if you would like to read my posthumous works and are not merely being polite – "

"No, 's'not me trying to be polite, I really would, you've no idea how much your novels – how much you – "

" – feel free to amble by _The Radcliffe's Rags_ sometime. My works are sold at multiple bookshops throughout Is, but as my husband is the owner of that one, I'm rather more partial to it than the others."

"Yes, thank you, I'll be sure you – "

"Mrs. Lovett!" Eloise screeched from across the room. "The oven – the cookies – !"

Cursing affluently, Nellie bolted up from her seat with a harried "lovely to meet you again" and scrambled towards the kitchen area, jerking open the oven door and receiving a faceful of smoke. Coughing, she drew out the tray of cookies. Burnt to a crisp. She'd have to make a new batch. Tossing the ruined goods into the disposal, she scampered about the cupboards to grab the ingredients.

As she reached for the bag of flour, she noticed Eloise beckoning a new arrival to sit down and have some ale: Judge Turpin. Nellie allowed herself only a moment to gape before beginning to warm pies formed yesterday in the oven. First the bastard was constantly popping into Sweeney's shop – and now he was in hers? What was he playing at?

_I thought killing that man would take him out of my life._

Sweeney's words from yesterday ran through her head as she continued preparing dough for a fresh batch of cookies. She had thought the same thing as he back when they were alive. That, once Turpin was dead, the two of them could – would – have a future together. A real relationship, complete with marriage and peace and love, not just the dysfunctional companionship they'd had on Fleet Street.

All of which was complete and utter shit now. She and Sweeney were not married, did not have peace, and certainly were not in love. And Turpin, however dead he might literally be, yet again infested their lives, permanently poisoning their lungs.

She shot the former judge another look as she pulled a sheet of pies out from the oven. So far, all he'd done was drink ale and have a pie, but she knew that he was just _waiting_ for the opportune moment to pounce . . .

It seemed that Anatoly was thinking along the same lines as she, for as he approached the counters to grab a fresh bottle of ale, she noticed that his mouth was etched into a frown, accompanied by a prominent crease between his eyebrows that made him look far older than seventeen.

"Cheer up, son," Nellie hummed, "'s'not even cyan yet."

The crease in his forehead only deepened. "What is Turpin doing here?" he intoned lowly. "I know you said you did not know him very well in life, but he does not seem to like your friend Mr. Todd at all, so by association I figured the two of you wouldn't be on good terms either . . . and he's been here for nearly a chord now . . ."

"Love, if my hands weren't caked with flour, they'd be slapping your shoulder right now," said Nellie, throwing him a wink. "Get back to work."

Reading in her expression that she did not want to discuss such matters right now, Anatoly marched away to refill ale glasses. Nellie chewed on the inside of her lip as she went on kneading dough. Her cavalier attitude about the subject did not reflect at all the thoughts frantically twining through her mind, bouncing and vaulting over one another in order to make themselves heard, theorizing why he was here and what he was planning and when he was going to act . . .

_Shit. Oh, shit._

He was going to act now, apparently.

Turpin strode up to the counter, a smile warping his thin lips when their eyes joined.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, not bothering to disguise the icy sheet coating her words. "Food not to your satisfaction? Ale gone bad? Shop conditions fail to meet your standards?"

He only continued to smile in an infuriatingly vapid way. "I merely came over here to pay, actually." Making use of her stunned silence and inanimate body, he took one of her hands in his own, while using his other to withdraw several coins and place them into her palm. Her skin pimpled in revulsion at the contact, despite its brevity. "Is this enough?"

She opened her fingers to examine how much talent he'd given her. "Yes, this is fine." He'd given her too much, actually, but who was she to point that out? "Thank you," she added with extreme difficulty.

"And might I add that the flower in your hair is very becoming."

She reached up with absent fingers to touch the daisy in her hair. She couldn't fathom why Sweeney had told her to put it there – though, from the look on his face when she left his shop, he couldn't fathom it either.

"How kind of you to say," she drawled. "Y'know, it seems you've had quite a recent fall from grace, since your death, if you're now having to pay both compliments _and_ apologies by yourself rather than sending one of your lackeys for you."

Turpin's smile twisted in genuine amusement at her tone. "I can tell you do not trust me, Mrs. Lovett. I know you believe I am – ah, how shall I phrase it – up to no good."

The snort had fled her before she could stop it. "You? Up to no good? The honorable Judge Turpin having anything but the best intentions in his heart? Why, my lord, how dare you accuse me of such things. I would never think so low of you – you who condemned countless innocent people to prison or death . . ."

Nellie was smiling now too, shaking her head as though to chide his foolishness, then all at once the simper dropped from her face and her features contorted, lips curling back from teeth in black odium. "Yes, I'm sure death has really changed you, isn't that right?"

Turpin seemed surprised by her animosity, but it did not ruffle his composure more than probing him to raise his eyebrows. Nor did it effect his polished tone when he next spoke: "Each and every one of those people earned their punishment. You lived in London as well, Mrs. Lovett – you saw the filth that polluted the streets. Do not pretend you disagree when I say that everyone in existence has done _something_ to warrant punishment."

" – _and the vermin of the world inhabit it – "_

_Never has she seen him like this, so enraged, so trapped in his hurricane of fury._

_His feet pace across the floorboards more rapid than ever, and as his gunpowder eyes fly to the window, flames of clarity break into them, illuminating the dark._

"_But not for long . . ."_

_The pacing continues, but there is an enlightened smile toying at his lips now, one that repels her as much as it draws her, as though she is simultaneously playing with opposing and attracting magnets._

"_They all deserve to die – "_

"But I assure you, I have no quarrel with Mr. Todd," said Turpin. "I merely want to live my afterlife in peace. To do that, though . . . I must first mend my broken bridges.

"Well, I shall be going now. Good day – " Turpin paused to convert his features into some cross between a grimace and a sneer " – that is, good _circle_ to you, Mrs. Lovett. The food was very good, thank you." He bowed his head at her, then made his leave.

Nellie blinked, trying to shake the memory from her vision and catch up to the present. "The bloody – "

_Don't let him distract you, don't let him make you all flustered, it's what he wants to have happen._

Lips pressed together in thought, she fluttered over to the till to put away the talent Turpin'd given her, before returning to the task of kneading the cookie dough. She was more puzzled than ever over what the ex-judge was up to . . . but she was also more convinced than ever that he was plotting something. She just didn't know what.

_Just like Toby, hmm? His suspicions about Sweeney were grounded in no fact, and yet –_

_Stop it, Lovett. It does no good to think on him any longer._

But once she began, there was no turning back.

"_Little things that I've been thinking and wondering about. . . . It's him, y'see. It's Mr. Todd. Oh, I know you fancy him, but men ain't like women – they ain't like what you can trust – "_

"Mrs. Lovett!" Anatoly called. "We're running low on blueberry pies."

"Yes – yes, of course – coming right up." She hurried for the cupboards, grabbing a bowl and knife and rolling pin, swearing when she dropped the latter on her feet. Dumping the supplies on the counter, she snatched at the dough that she'd had in mind for her cookies, deciding instead to use it for her new pies.

"_Toby!" she yelps._

"_Coming!" he choruses right back, appearing immediately in the doorway no matter where he is, no matter what she asks of him._

She cursed again as she realized that she was filling the pies with strawberries instead of blueberries. _Focus, damn you._ Well, maybe the customers wouldn't notice. Or maybe they could at least summon the will not to care. For Christ's sake, why did they expect so much variety to be served here? She was only one woman; she couldn't be expected to cook every bloody pastry in existence by herself.

_Stop complaining. You're the one who created the stupid menu._

Gritting her teeth, she peeled back the layers of dough making up the pie crusts, chucking the strawberries out from the pies and onto the counter. All that was really different was the color, yet it made such a difference. Damn berries. Damn customers. Damn words. Strawberries, blueberries – most of the letters were the same. Damn words, she thought again, showering blueberries into the pies. Why did there have to be so many words? So many – too many – and yet not enough, not any for when it really counted, when you really needed them . . .

_("no, not lied at all – now I never lied")_

" – _I just never had proper education, y'see," he says, becoming defensive, cheeks coloring red all the while. "No opportunity what with the workhouse and Pirelli – "_

_She moves towards him, puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hush, darling, 's'nothing to be ashamed of. I only had a few years of formal education myself – most of which was an utter waste of time, mind you – and I may not speak as well as some real English lady – "_

"_Aw, tosh, Mrs. Lovett, you're as real a lady as they come – "_

" – _but I've somehow done alright teaching myself, don't you think?" she finishes, patting his shoulder, and now – at last – he smiles at her. Her heart warms. "C'mon then, what d'you say? How about I teach you?"_

_He nods. "Yes – thank you, mum."_

_She rumples his hair, grinning when he swats at her hands. "That's my boy. Trust me, dear, you'll be glad you agreed. Knowing how to read and write – well, there's just nothing like it. Just think where we'd be without any words, eh?"_

"_It's a horrible thought," he agrees. "You wouldn't be able to talk at all, mum – you'd have no idea what to do with yourself all day." _

_And she laughs, grabbing him and tousling his hair further, and this time he just grins and doesn't try to stop her, knowing his punishment is just._

God, she missed him.

xxx

"Hello, Mr. Todd."

Eloise Gardner beamed up at him when he turned around, golden tresses curtaining her face.

He nodded at her once, then his brow furrowed. "Why are you here?"

"To take your art class, of course," she replied, as though it were perfectly obvious. "It's starting in just a few points after all, isn't it? I've taken a few art classes on Is before but not that many, and I'm sure you'll be a great teacher. Besides, Mrs. Lovett – she says to call her Nellie but Daddy always says to address adults by their proper names – said that your past three classes have gone dreadfully. She doesn't know for certain since she hasn't been to any, but according to her you're never happy after them, so she let me off a chord earlier than usual because she says that you might like to see a familiar face in the room. Besides, new souls are always showing up for Is classes – and I catch on quick."

He inclined his head towards the desks. "Have a seat."

Eloise nodded and flounced off.

Even despite the yellow aurora sitting in the left corner of the room, Sweeney's fourth art class went by no more pleasurably or quickly than the three before it had. The students were worthless. Whether from not paying attention, instantly giving up in defeat, or merely because they were hopeless at making anything by hand, they were a truly pathetic lot.

_Or maybe because you're an incompetent teacher?_

"Mr. Todd?"

Sweeney reflexively got up from his desk. _Damn._ Not this woman again. "Yes?"

The woman, a female perhaps fifteen years his senior with short locks the color of ashes and matronly features, gave him a smile of theatrical despair. "I seem to be having a bit of trouble, Mr. Todd." _That_ much was obvious, judging from her warped glob of clay. "Could you be a dear and tell me what this tool is? It looks useful, I just can't figure out for what . . ."

"A cut-off wire."

"How does it work?"

He grabbed one end of the wire cutter in each hand, placed the wire in the middle of the clay, and then pulled, slicing the clay in two. He barely noticed the pain in his wrist from using the wire-cutter – his frustration had drowned it.

"Oh, marvelous!" she exclaimed. "You're brilliant, Mr. Todd, you're very good with pottery. I suppose clay and I simply were not meant to be, hmm?"

"You'll get better with practice," he said stiffly.

She bristled with delight; he cursed himself. "Very good with flattering a woman too."

Sweeney's jaws were sewn together so tight by this point it was a miracle he could speak at all. "Let me know if you require any further help."

"Thank you, dear, I will."

By the end of the class, Sweeney was – as usual – hanging on by his teeth to patience.

"Thank you for the lesson today, Mr. Todd," Eloise said, bouncing up to him as he cleaned up the room. "I really learned a lot, and it was fun too."

She hovered for a moment as though waiting for something; a bit belatedly, he extended a quiet, "You're welcome."

"I'll definitely be back next class. I've never taken a pottery class before, and I like it a lot more than the other art classes I've tried. I especially didn't like painting because even though I was putting the paintbrush on the _paper_, the paint somehow ended up all over _me_, and then my brothers made fun of me. But I didn't mind so much about that part, because I got them in trouble with Daddy the next circle. Well, farewell, Mr. Todd, I'll see you soon!"

Waving, Eloise skipped off and disappeared through the wall. Realizing that the threat of a smile was looming at the corners of his mouth, Sweeney beat it down, then finished cleaning the classroom and left for his shop.

Mrs. Lovett was already there, stationed by their table, tonight's dinner and gin laid upon it. She did not seem to notice him until he had sat down in his chair – upon which she jumped. Expecting a harangue on 'stupid men,' 'giving me a fright,' and 'no manners whatsoever,' Sweeney merely started on the bean soup set in front of him, already prepared to tune her out.

Lovett, however, only sat down and began to eat, silent as the grave.

Something was wrong. A fact which became even more apparent as dinner wore on and she still had not said one word . . .

"What?" she snapped when she caught him staring.

"You aren't talking," Sweeney said before he could stop himself.

Lovett threw back her head and laughed, and he flinched at the forced hack of a sound. "I bother you when I talk, and I bother you when I don't talk! I can't make you happy, can I? Well, if you _want_ me to talk – "

"No," said Sweeney, trying to heed her off. Her eyes flashed. "That is," he reformed with haste, "I don't want you to talk if you don't want to."

Lovett's lips peeled back as though about to launch into another rant, but then the wind left her inflamed spirit, and she crumpled, slouching over the table. "Sorry, love. Didn't mean to take out my mood on you. It's just been a long d – circle, is all." She took a large swallow of her gin glass. It was only then that he noticed half of their bottle of gin was empty – and he was still on his first glass. But he was not alarmed: Mrs. Lovett could hold her gin better than even the gruffest sailors.

"So many words, ain't there?"

He flung his eyes at her. "Hmm?"

"So many words," she repeated, cocking her head at him, her full mouth contorted in a squiggle he could not interpret. "So many bloody words in the English language. Baffling, isn't it, how many there are? And when you think about how many languages there are apart from English . . . that's an awful lot of words, hmm? So many words, and you'd think there'd be some for every situation . . . but there's not."

Sweeney narrowed his gaze. Babbling was nothing new for her, and neither were statements she would have liked to believe profound . . . but the way in which she said them was foreign, strange.

"There should be," Lovett murmured after taking another gulp of her drink. "There should be a word for everything. They can get us so far – words, I mean – but they can also send us plummeting within an instant." She broke off and returned to the dregs of her bean soup. "So, how's business going, Mr. Todd?"

When he didn't answer, she lifted her eyes from her bowl, quirking an eyebrow and smirking. "What? You can tell me – I'm not trying to steal your money or nothing. I'm just asking. Shop doing well?"

The woman was completely mad. No sane person went from ruminating on words _(of all things)_ with a heavily morose air to bubbling with easy happiness the very next moment. Unless she was putting on an act? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time – she was quite the deceptive little vixen – but there was always a reason behind her sham. What could she possibly hope to gain from this show of hers?

"Mr. T? Can you hear me?" she teased. "How's business, you silly man?"

"Fine." As she said, she wouldn't be after his money; she had plenty of that here even without his help. And she certainly wasn't after his love anymore. What else could she want? Hell, what else did he _have_?

"Bloody useless at having a conversation, you are," Mrs. Lovett scolded, a light affliction to her tone. "Y'know that, don't you? Really, might as well have a conversation with a wall sometimes, with the way you participate."

Unless she wasn't trying to gain anything from this? Unless she was miserable, and merely trying to hide it?

"At least with a wall you know it's not listening. With you – well, who can tell? You're as perceptive as can be sometimes, never miss a single cue . . . and other times I'd swear you're not even in that body of yours."

But what right did_ she_ have to be miserable? He was the one who had lost everything dear to him; he was the one who had suffered at her cruel, manipulative hands.

"D'you have any regrets?"

The pain was laced through her voice again, the misery reunited with her brown eyes. Said eyes were fastened to one of his newest sculptures – a tree – as her mouth gave way to more bitter words. "I do, of course. A lot of them . . . but dwelling on that won't do any good, eh? But y'know, not all of my regrets are things I thought they'd be. I'm glad about some things that I thought I wouldn't be. Blessings in disguise."

Her eyes slid to his then, but he was not positive she saw him there. "I'm glad I never got to live by the sea, for instance."

The sea. Yes, he remembered her mentioning living by the sea many times, not that he had ever paid attention to all of the intricate details of her plan. No . . . it wasn't so much a plan as a dream. Her unfulfilled dream.

An emotion that Sweeney could not name – or refused to name – squirmed within him for a moment before he crushed it.

"Oh, don't get me wrong . . . I still adore the sea." She bestowed a smile upon her gin glass. "More than – well, no, not more than anything. But it was always my favorite place to be, and still is. But if I'd lived there, I would've started to take it for granted. The magic of it all – the glittering water and its soothing, strong waves . . . the endless stretches of warm sand . . . the peace. . . .

"We never properly appreciate what we got 'til it's gone . . . and we never properly appreciate the beauty that surrounds us each day neither . . . I wouldn't've appreciated the sea like I should've if I was there all the time."

She was breaking one of their well-established rules – well, their only rule, really – no mentioning the past. No, she wasn't breaking it – she had broken it before on several occasions, and so had he. Now, though, she was shattering it. Smashing it to pieces.

But he could not find his voice to tell her this.

Her feet bumped against his calves as she stretched her legs out under the table. "I do wish I got to go one last time before dying, though. Just to see it again. Hadn't been in so long. Not for years."

She reached for a gin flagon to top off her glass – and that was when he realized she was reaching for the second bottle. The first was sitting on the table surface, not a single drop within it.

He grasped her hand that held the neck of the bottle and yanked it away from her glass, setting it instead back on the table.

She shot him a reproachful look. "Now, Mr. T, what d'you think you're doing there, hmm?" Her tone was filled with the usual joviality, her words only slightly slurred as she struggled against his grip. "Just getting myself a bit of gin, is all. No harm in that. You're drinking too, y'know."

Sweeney shook his head in disgust. However well Lovett held her liquor, even she was not talented enough to drink two whole bottles of gin without collapsing. Now that he was paying attention and not ensnared by his coiling thoughts, he could read the signs (as if the one empty bottle and the slightly-sipped-at-other bottle – thankfully, she seemed to have only had one glass from the second flagon – weren't enough of a sign): her red-rimmed eyes, the tremor in her hand beneath his, the rapid mood changes, the subjects she chose to talk about . . .

"C'mon now, Mr. T, don't be such a silly fool." She wriggled her callused hand against his, struggling to get another drink.

"Mrs. Lovett. You're drunk."

"Tosh," she replied, lunging with her other hand for the bottle – only to have it intercepted by his other, bandaged hand. "I'm not drunk, love. Really, now. Just 'cause you're jealous a woman can keep her gin down better than a grown man like you . . ."

Ignoring her prattling, keeping his hands seized around hers, he stood from the table and began to walk towards the wall, dragging her along. He planned to take her to her room and make her stay in there – and by God if he had to steal the key and lock the door on her, he would. She was going to drink herself into a coma if left on her own with the gin.

While he pulled her towards the wall, however, Lovett crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.

Sweeney scowled. Stupid woman. She'd always known her alcohol limit in life, and now, _now _when she was dead, she chose to become so intoxicated that she passed out? Leaning down, he placed one arm under back, the other under her knees, and stood. She hung in his grip, limp, rag doll-like.

"_Mr. T!" she squeals as he scoops her into his arms and treads towards her bedroom; she refuses to stay still, arms thrashing and feet swinging and hands grasping, fingers twining in his hair and legs tangling with his arms, and he stumbles and growls with frustrated lust as she peppers his collar bone with little bites –_

Jaw clenched, he resumed stalking towards the wall. Upon entering her room, he wasted no time in dumping her on the bed. She stirred for a moment, head twisting to the side and lips mouthing something indistinguishable, then fell back into unconsciousness, an orphan lock of hair that had tumbled over her face fluttering as she breathed.

– _he is tucking it behind her ear before he even realizes that his hand has moved – _

He turned away and walked through the wall back to his shop, wondering what – if anything – she would remember of tonight in the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Hello again, dear readers! So, fifteen reviews last chapter - awesome! You were just two shy of breaking your record. Let's have another go at it with this chapter, eh? ;]

Anywho, in taking a leaf from several other FF-Net authors, I've been meaning to start replying to my anonymous/PM-less reviewers at the bottom of my chapters for a while . . . but, like most of my good intentions, I keep forgetting. xD As of now, however, I'll be replying to all of you, just as I do with those of you that I can PM.

Those of you who haven't left anonymous reviews/haven't disabled your PM feature, feel free to skip this part of my author's note; I promise there is no further crucial information regarding breaking the review record, haha. And if I accidentally skipped one of you anonymous folks, please let me know!

So, working backwards from reviews for chapter fifteen to chapter one . . .

_Bella_: In love with this story? Should I expect my little baby to receive her first marriage proposal soon? xD Joking aside, I'm flattered! Thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!

_Jillian the porcelain maiden_: Thank you so much for R-&-R-ing, m'dear! I really appreciate that you've been with this story from the start, despite my never getting in touch with you 'til now. But it's been wonderful receiving your feedback, and I do hope to continue hearing from you. ^^

_Sweeneytodrules_: Wow, thanks very much! I'm excited to hear what you think of the future chapters.

_Guest_: Thanks so much! I'm delighted that you're enjoying my li'l fic so much.

_Amy:_ -basks in the love- It's so reassuring to know that someone else in this big wide world appreciates the beautiful Review Circle of Love. xD Thank you so much for your kind words, and I apologize for making you cry!

_Melisa20:_ Wow! I hope reading all day didn't adversely impact your real life too much (though, of course, the fan-fiction life is infinitely more fun, hmm?). Supernatural stories aren't all bad, eh? =P Thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!

_Guest_: [I am assuming you are a different 'Guest' than who reviewed later?] Publish this? My little fic? Oh, wouldn't that be a dream. If Sweeney Todd weren't still copyrighted, I probably would have tried to pull a Wicked/Ella Enchanted/insert-other-bestselling-spin-off-book here and get this one published. That, of course, is not possible within this fandom. Ah, well. I'm still having more fun than is healthy with this story. ^^;; Thank so much for your high praise!

_sp: _Thank you, love! I hope you continue to enjoy the story. ^^

_IForgotMyPasswordDerp_: Oh, I'm pleased that I made you laugh. I don't think I'm very often successful at humor writing. xD Thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_BeSmiley_: Thanks so much, and I hope you continue to like the fic!

_Sweeney Todd Lover: _Wow, thanks very much! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. ^^

_madhatter_: Why, thank you! I do quite enjoy having readers in my clutches. –evil authoress laugh-

_Scolander_: Morbidly funny? No, I don't find that strange. In fact, I quite appreciate your pun there, haha. Thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_MsStardust_: Thank you, m'dear! I'm glad that you're enjoying this story.

_nachoez: _Thanks so much, love! I'm glad to hear you're enjoying the fic so much. As to Lucy . . . well, let's just say that I have not forgotten about her. ;]

_Reviewer17_: The best afterlife story you've ever read? Wow, thanks! ^^;; But I have to ask – have you read a lot of others? I'm genuinely curious; I have a (probably unhealthy xD) obsession with dead people, as you can probably tell, and love reading afterlife/ghostly/etc stories. Anyway, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!


	17. The Perfect Escape

_Life and death do not mix. They could never dance together because both of them would insist on leading. – Jonathan Carroll_

xxx

Pain. Aching, throbbing pain, gnawing on – at – within – her head. A groan escaped her, sounding more like the noise of a dying pig than an adult woman. She kept her eyes closed, refusing to acknowledge what was happening, refusing to believe that she would have been foolish enough to do that – that she would have consumed far too much gin last night . . .

But she must have. She couldn't remember the previous evening, but there was no other reason her head would smart like this. She cursed herself for her idiocy. Getting sloshed wasn't going to make life on Is any easier. Getting sloshed wasn't going to change anything long term. Getting sloshed wasn't going to help Toby . . .

_Lying here isn't changing anything neither. Get up, you stupid thing._

Cracking apart crusted eyelids, she squinted at the clock, yelping when she saw that it was already a quarter past maize. Her shop was due to be open in less than a chord, and she wasn't even out of bed! Vaulting to her feet, she began to run through her morning routine, freshening and cleaning up before dashing to _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_ to prepare she and Sweeney a quick breakfast. She wished more than ever that Is had animals as she staggered through these motions: eggs had always been a help the morning after she'd chugged much alcohol.

"Morning, Mr. Todd," she chorused as she entered his shop. Sweeney, already seated at the little round table, looked at her as she set down their breakfast, taking in her bloodshot eyes, her floundering movements, her pinched features . . . all of the things she had observed on herself in the mirror this morning.

"Made some nice hot crumpets for us today," said Nellie as she fussed about, "and a hot pot of tea too, how's that sound, eh? Know it's not much, but I'm a bit behind schedule, as you can see – " she poured herself some tea, willing herself to make her hand stop quaking " – but it's no problem, I'll be fine so long as I keep moving – " she spilled some tea as her tremoring fingers tried to pour his tea " – oops, I'm sorry, dear – my hands are all fluttery this morning, don't know what's come over me – "

Sweeney's fingers leapt out and captured the hand she had around the teapot. Her heart jumped into her throat.

"Sit down, Mrs. Lovett," he said as he forced the teapot out of her grip and onto the table.

Stymied, she did as bid, watching as he methodically poured his own tea and buttered a crumpet. Taking his lead, she took a crumpet as well, her knife clumsily slapping butter and jam upon its surface.

"'M'sorry," she said finally, hating the extended silence between them. "Guess I had too much to drink last night, hmm?"

His eyes confronted hers from over his tea cup. "You don't remember?"

"'Course I don't remember," she muttered. "Completely smashed, I was, judging by how I feel this morning." Noticing an odd expression in his stare, she shifted in her chair. "Why? Did I do something really . . . stupid? Or something I shouldn't've?"

He sipped his tea and placed the cup back upon the table, the perfect picture of calm. "No."

She tightened her eyes. She didn't believe him. "Mr. Todd. What'd I do?"

"Nothing."

"Mr. _Todd_."

He rolled his eyes. "You babbled on as you usually do, then you passed out. Satisfied?"

Her mouth pulled into a grimace. "Oh." Her eyes drifted from his face – still completely masked – to the clock. "Dammit." She shot to her feet. "Shop's got to be open in two points. 'Bye, love, I'll see you in a few chords."

Anatoly and Eloise were waiting outside the door to _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_ when she got there, unable to step inside with the door locked.

"Sorry, loves, sorry," Nellie rambled as she let them in, "overslept a bit, I did, slightly behind schedule, but nevermind that now, we'll be – "

"Are you feeling well, Mrs. Lovett?" said Anatoly, brow furrowed as he stepped inside.

"'Course, dear, 'course I'm fine – now, I've got to go get started on heating up them pastries I made last night – "

"You look ill," Eloise chimed in, peering at her. "Really pale and bleary-eyed and shaky." The lines around her small mouth creased. "I think you should take the day off and go sleep, Mrs. Lovett. You really look as though you could use it. Anatoly and I will sell what you made yesterday, we can hold down business without you – "

"Really, El, darling, I'm fine." When would they stop insisting that she wasn't well enough to run her own shop? She'd worked in all sorts of conditions while alive. The repercussions of drinking too much had never prevented her from going on as normal before; she'd never allowed them to.

Nellie tripped towards her cooking area. Perhaps realizing it would be futile to argue, Eloise and Anatoly said nothing else to her all morning, and instead the three went about their business as usual (save for Nellie's somewhat-impaired motor functions and concentration).

"I wonder what the lag in customers is for today?" Anatoly said when he swooped over to the counter to deliver a fresh round of pies and scones to the awaiting customers.

"Hmm?" Nellie hummed, glancing around the room. Though she had not noticed it until Anatoly'd said anything – she'd been far too absorbed in her cooking, she told herself, that was all – there was a definite lack of consumers within _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_ today. There was still a fair amount of people present, but nowhere near their usual overflow.

Anatoly's eyebrows steepled at her lack of response, but before he could say anything, another voice made itself heard.

"Well, most of them are very busy preparing for tomorrow night," Lorraine, who sat at a table nearby the counter, spoke up.

"What is tomorrow night?" Anatoly asked.

"Haven't heard yet, have you?" Lorraine grinned indulgently, as though about to give both them and herself giant toffees. "There's a wedding tomorrow. Ivan Filipov and Suchin Metharom."

"Who?"

"No idea," said Lorraine with a shrug, "but that's not the point, is it? A wedding is a wedding, and you know how much the souls on Is love any reason to break their routines. Nearly everyone is attending. That's why not many people are here right now, they're preparing for the wedding – purchasing their fancy outfits, dallying about for appropriate gifts to bring, taking dance classes to make sure they're fully prepared for any sort of dance style that may come up during the celebration . . ."

"And these two only just decided to get married today?" Nellie could not help but exclaim. "One circle in advance is all they're taking to plan their wedding?"

Lorraine shook her head. "No, no, they've been planning it for many circles. But seeing as circles are the largest time increment on Is, they couldn't announce the wedding until a circle before, otherwise all the souls would get confused as to the circle it was to be held on, you see?" She shook her head again and _tsk_ed. "Whoever's bright idea it was to only measure time in circles I'd like to have a good talking to. I can understand wanting to not have souls count the years they've been dead, seeing as it might depress a good many of them, but really. It makes planning events in advance very difficult."

Nellie's brow ruffled. "So _everyone_ is invited to the wedding? Regardless of whether you even know the folks?"

"Well, it would be terribly rude to throw people out," said Anatoly. "It's how weddings upon Is always work. As Mrs. Mathers said, Is spirits get very bored with their routines, as I'm sure you've realized. Spontaneous events always create a commotion. Are you going to attend too?" he queried Lorraine.

"Indeed I am."

"Then why are you in here eating?" he teased.

She laughed. "Because I've already got a dress and all the dance maneuvers I could possibly need. What about you?"

"Oh, I don't see why not. Breaking the routine is always nice, though I do confess that I'm not terribly fond of crowds. And you, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Nellie, dear," she corrected. Neither Anatoly nor Eloise would call her by her first name. She wished they would. Being constantly referred to as 'Mrs. Lovett' – or, even worse, 'mum' (a word she once thought absolutely nothing of) – only served to resurface memories that were smarting enough as it was.

"Yes, well, are you going to go?"

Nellie pursed her lips. Sociable as she was, crowding every single spirit into one room sounded like a bit much even by her welcoming standards. She didn't know for sure how many people were on Is – but she did know that there were a _damn_ lot of hallways.

On the other hand, this could be just what she needed. A detour from her whirlwind thoughts and emotions. A break from the misery she'd been drowning in as of recent. The perfect escape. When was the last time she'd been to a wedding, anyway? Far too long, that was for certain. She'd always loved attending weddings: the sweeping music, the gorgeous outfits, the dancing

_they twirl around his shop with reckless abandon to a tune only they can hear, he leading her in a dance like none she has ever performed – nor even seen, for that matter. And yet it does not matter, for he guides her with such ease, such grace that she flows perfectly with him, as though they are born to do this, as though they have waited their whole lives to be entwined, spinning together_

and of course the joy radiating from all those present. Though on second thought, maybe that wasn't what she needed to bear witness to at the moment . . .

"It would be wonderful to see you there, darling," Lorraine offered.

_Oh, what the hell._ Nellie quirked her lips in a passable smile. "I'll be there." _ Besides, it'll do you good to step out of your commonplace existence._

As the morning wore on, Nellie found that – despite herself – she was becoming more and more giddy about the following evening. A wedding! She would have fun once she was there, she knew she would.

"Why?" he said with distaste.

Unfortunately, her barber was not quite as enthusiastic about the idea as she was when, during her lunch break, she told him of their evening plans for the next circle. Not that she had expected him to be.

"_Why?"_ She shoved her elbow against his shoulder as she leaned down to place his lunch in front of him. "Because it'll be fun, that's _why_." She sat down and began to gobble up her own food. "I know you're not terribly fond of people, but they're not all bad, really, love." When she only received a raised eyebrow to this statement, she huffed. "I'm _serious_. It'll be a good time. There'll be food, music, dancing – it'll be delightful."

A pout flowered on her lips. "And you don't really want to make me go by myself, d'you, Mr. T? A man going alone to a social event is one thing, but it's another thing _entirely_ for a woman. Just doesn't look right. People give you funny glances. They stare. Gossip."

"Hmm," Sweeney commented without interest.

"Fine, then. I'll find some other chap to accompany me."

He twirled his pasta around with his fork, giving no reply. Nellie pressed her lips together; she'd been hoping to provoke a jealous response in him with that remark. Giving an indifferent look to her plate as she twined more pasta around the utensil, she continued demurely, "I'm sure I can find another man to take me. Shouldn't be hard – already seen a few of them looking . . . I set him right in his place afterwards, but the other circle, one bloke even smacked me on the arse – "

His eyes snapped to hers at that – seemingly involuntarily – for next moment they were fixed yet again on his fork. She smirked. As though he thought she_ hadn't_ caught that fire in the obsidian orbs. So he did still feel a connection to her. However hidden and narrow it might be, he felt _something_ towards her, and even if it was only the usual lust _(and even if it's only the result of another lie, hmm?)_, it was enough to stoke those familiar possessive flames . . .

"But if you'd rather go with me instead of one of them," she continued after wiping the smirk from her features, "then that'd be lovely, dear. . . . So, what d'you say? Will you come?"

He jerked his head: _yes._

She beamed at him. "Oooh, excellent, Mr. Todd! It'll be such fun – trust me, dear – you know I'll make it worth your while."

A blush crept up her neck and into her face as Sweeney lifted his gaze to stare at her.

_Dammit, Nellie, why did you have to go and drink so bloody much last night?_

"I didn't mean it like – didn't mean for that to sound – "

She couldn't even bring herself to say _suggestive_; once she had gone out of her way to insinuate remarks like that around him, oh yes, but certainly not now. She was pleased that he held some kind of attachment to her still – to know that he did not view her as simply nothing – but winning over his love was no longer even a vague thought.

" – I was just rambling, all that gin from last night, y'know, 's'gone straight to my head . . ."

With an almost imperceptible shake of his head – from amusement or disdain, who knew – Sweeney returned his focus to his food.

"But we really will have a good time, dear," she babbled, praying that the words would be true. "I'm sure of it."

xxx

"_I still adore the sea . . ."_

"_I do wish I got to go one last time before dying, though. Just to see it again. Hadn't been in so long . . ."_

But she hadn't gone again. He had stolen that dream from her. She had stolen everything from him – so, in turn, he had stolen everything from her. An eye for an eye; a life for a life; crushed dreams for crushed reality. Fair was fair.

_Justice._

_("share and share alike")_

Which, of course, was his goal. It was always his goal: to restore some sense of justice to the cold, twisted world; to give comeuppance where it was due, where the corrupt law would not.

She had not been afraid of him. She had thought she was different than the rest. Why had she thought that? Because she thought he _needed_ her?

– _not pretty never pretty –_

Hadn't he made it clear that she was just as dispensable as the rest?

_("even you, Mrs. Lovett, even I")_

Well, no . . . he supposed that was not completely true: it wasn't many a woman who would willingly carve up men's bodies, who would willingly serve their flesh in pies, who would willingly stay up most of the night in the bakehouse and then –

– _don't don't think on that anymore – _

But that had made no difference once the judge was dead – once he'd found out how she had lied to him, deceived him – betrayed him –

_("we all deserve to")_

So he had returned the favor. He caressed her with lies of promise and love – deceit in his every tendon and vein as his arms embraced her for a final dance – savoring the heartbeat when her eyes flickered with sudden knowledge, with the realization that he had deceived her in turn, just before she was thrown to the flames.

He took her dreams. He took her future. Her life. And, as had been proven by her drunk ramblings, his actions had been effective: She still longed for what she did not have – but now there was not even a possibility of ever having it. Now there was empty. Now there was nothing. He grinned savagely at no one. But

_("the work waits")_

why did the grin not feel entirely genuine?

He snarled, unraveling the bandages around his wrist – it had finally healed – and throwing them aside. Of course it was genuine. He had given her what she deserved, and was glad of the fact. And to know that she was still hurting over it? All the better.

But –

_No._

He began to pace across his shop, fettling knife clenched between fingers, teeth clenched between jaws. Such thoughts had been plaguing him since two circles ago when she had gotten drunk, circling over and over and over in the way Turpin used to pollute his mind. Try as he did to silence these ruminations, they only went on chattering. He did not know why; he had reached a conclusion to them long ago: he was satisfied that she was dead, that he had caused it –

"Mr. Todd!"

And – speak of the devil – she had just stepped into his shop.

"Why aren't you dressed in your suit yet? Don't you remember – tonight's the wedding! It starts in fifteen points! And I, for one, don't intend to be late, so you'd best hurry along and get back to your room to change. I thought you'd be ready to go by now – you told me you'd be ready by a quarter to scarlet – 'cause you do realize that what with us not wearing Is robes, we can't just walk through the walls? We have to actually walk the corridors to get there, and I don't know how long that's going to take. . . . Well, are you going to get moving or not?"

Rolling his eyes, he turned to face her. She had already changed out of her robes and donned her outfit for tonight. It was a ball gown of blood-red silk, snug around her waist, gigantic and billowing like a huge upside-down teacup at the skirt. In her traditional fashion, the sleeves only just hugged the edges of her shoulders, and the neckline cascaded very low. She'd made an attempt at doing something with her hair: the tresses were not as tangled as normal, though they were still piled atop her head with no particular style in mind, a ribbon the same shade of red as her dress tying the mess together.

– _not pretty –_

"What d'you think, love?" she teased, snagging his eyes with hers.

"_I still adore the sea . . ."_

He bent an eyebrow, still struggling to disengage from what he'd been musing upon before she showed up. "Red?"

– _never pretty –_

"Why not?" she demanded, lips twisting as she fought off either a smile or a scowl. "Now c'mon, let's get going."

"_I do wish I got to go one last time . . ."_

– _no –_

In his confusion, she managed to make him go to his room, yelling through the closed door for him to put on his suit until his arms and legs finally remembered how to perform the action. This task accomplished, he emerged from his room, and then found their arms hooked together as they began their stroll down the corridors.

"Don't know precisely where to go," Lovett chattered as they ambled, "but I'm guessing all these dolled-up folks are heading where we are, so we'll just follow them. Gosh, there sure are a lot of dead people. I mean, I'm sure that sounds stupid – 'course there are a lot of 'em – but you don't really realize the scope of this place when you're just going about your daily routine, y'know? You don't see just how many people really are here . . ."

"_Hadn't been in so long . . ."_

". . . so much history from so many – Mr. Todd?" She tapped her fingers against his arm; his muscles, which he had not realized were seizing, loosened. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

From her expression, it was clear that she knew nothing wasn't wrong for him – but when _was_ there nothing wrong for Sweeney Todd? So though she sighed, she said no more on the subject.

xxx

The wedding was the strangest assimilation of people, traditions, and cultures Nellie had ever seen. According to Grey and Eloise Gardiner, as well as the girl's many brothers (whom Nellie'd wound up sitting beside), this was how all weddings on Is happened. There were aspects of the wedding that she recognized – such as when the couple exchanged rings – and other parts that she was baffled by: there was one point during the ceremony where seven broomsticks were thrown into a pile upon the floor and then set on fire.

The entire event was conducted in Russian, so Nellie could not grasp much of what was said by the preacher . . . but she could infer enough of what was happening from actions and gestures, as it seemed the other souls around her could.

The other souls . . . there were more of them than she could have even imagined. The wedding was being held in was the largest room she had ever seen; like the sea

_("Mr. T") _

it stretched out further than the eye could possibly gaze. And with good reason: there were many people attending. Many, _many_ people. Seeing as she ran a rather popular bakery, Nellie was accustomed to viewing many souls of different races and colors all clustered within the same vicinity, but nothing could have prepared her for this lake – no, _ocean_ – of people.

Too, she was used to living life on Is in shades and shadows, with only sprinklings of color in her every circle. Here, pigments blanketed everything: from the walls dangled bright tinsel and baubles; the chairs were a brilliant blue; a maroon rug ran from the back of the room up to the altar, separating the two clusters of seats.

Most drastically, she did not glimpse a single person wearing Is robes. On other occasions, it was rare she saw anything _but_ those black robes; now, it were as though no one had ever heard of them: a rainbow of garments sprawled throughout the room.

"Would you stop looking so bloody sullen?" she grumbled at Sweeney under her breath.

Sweeney, eyes far away with that look she was all too familiar with, only continued to blindly watch the procession upfront. They'd been here for nearly a full chord, and she didn't think the man had so much as blinked the entire time. Really, but couldn't he pretend to have a good time for once? Or at least not sit there and sulk?

Pursing her lips, she looped her arm through his, leaning against his side. He stiffened. She frowned. He'd been acting strange these past few circles, though she couldn't place her finger on why. What was bothering him? Granted, she had things that were bothering her too . . .

_Don't go there, Lovett. You're here to have a good time, remember?_

It was hard to do so with such a grump for a companion, though. She hoped she'd be able to reach him before the evening was out; she didn't want to be miserable the entire time.

The sound of thunder made her jump. There was weather in the afterlife? It took her a moment to realize that what she was hearing was not a storm, but people – millions upon millions of people – applauding. Their claps rippled and bounced off the walls and high ceiling. Sitting up as straight as she could, straining to see what was happening up front, Nellie just made out the forms of the bride and groom leaning in to kiss each other before starting on their stroll down the aisle.

"The best part comes next," Eloise told Nellie as the souls rose from their seats and swarmed after the newly wedded couple. "Not that I don't like watching the procession, but I've always liked the receptions best. Everyone always has so much fun eating and dancing and spending time together."

Crushed by bodies on all sides as they moved towards the exit, Nellie could only manage a nod, holding Sweeney's arm in a grip as unrelenting as a vise. The horde of spirits slowly but surely made their way towards the door and into the room next door.

If Nellie had thought the room they'd been in before was huge, it was nothing compared to this one. Had she been forced to put a measurement upon it, she might have guessed it was the span of five or six oceans. And though made of stone walls just like all of Is, it was far from bleak (or, as she had once called the architectural layout to Sweeney, a bloody tomb). The middle of the room was free of all furniture, designed to be a dance floor. To her far right, she could make out an orchestra setting up; if she strained her eyes far enough to the left, she glimpsed long tables laden with food and drink. Tinsel and flowers were sprinkled everywhere; candles fixed to the walls cast a pleasant yellow fuzz along the floor.

It was beautiful.

"You came!" Lorraine Mathers exclaimed as she approached. Taking Nellie's elbow, she pulled the awed baker out of the doorway, where souls were still flocking through; Nellie's left arm, still linked with Sweeney's, pulled him along.

"Mmm, yes," Nellie murmured, still soaking in the scene.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" Lorraine queried with a smile of understanding. "After being dead for a while, you tend to just take these spectacles for granted." She shook her head. "I shouldn't let myself do that. There's too much beauty here for it not to be appreciated. Well, I should be off – my husband always insists on us taking part in the first dance of the evening."

Lorraine and Nellie said their good-byes, and the former went on her way. After giving the room another sweeping look, Nellie turned her attention to Sweeney. His eyes were scanning the area too, though she couldn't tell if he was actually seeing what was there or not. _He better not be looking for Turpin . . ._

She squeezed his arm. "Care to take a walk around, love? See who else is here, maybe grab a few hors d'oeuvres?"

No reply.

"Mr. T?"

"Yes," he mumbled.

Determined not to let the man bother her, Nellie marched along the edge of the dance floor, Sweeney in tow. It felt like she'd walked at least ten miles before they finally reached the food tables.

"Well, they've certainly got variety," she declared, eyeing the long tables piled high with assorted dishes. "I don't even know what half of this stuff is, d'you? I mean, look at that." She pointed to a layered pastry of some sort. "Looks interesting, though. Maybe I should try and snag a recipe, might do well at the shop."

She cast her eyes to the silent, sedentary artist. She was not going to be annoyed by him – she was_ not_. And she was going to make him happy tonight. Or at least get him out of his moping state.

Taking one of the unidentified pastries between her fingertips, she took a bite. "Mmm. Well, whatever the hell it is, 's'not half bad. Here, have a taste." She put the remainder of the dessert into his mouth without waiting for permission. "Good, hmm?"

"Hmm," he returned vaguely as he chewed.

Her teeth clamped. _You're not going to be bothered by him, remember?_ "Wonder what the name of this thing is? If I'm to find a recipe, I'll have to know the name – "

"It's called baklava," offered a new voice. Lifting her head, Nellie's eyes caught Mrs. Reyna Lovett's, who stood on the other side of the table in a rippling dress of royal purple. Reyna smiled, lips curving in a combination of kindness and contrition; the woman clearly still felt bad about how she had treated Nellie some circles ago before realizing she was Albert's former wife. "It's a pastry from the Ottoman Empire."

"Is that so? Well, thank you kindly," said Nellie. "Your dress is lovely, by the way."

"Oh – " an absent hand went to Reyna's shoulder " – thank you." Her dark eyes widened with admiration as they traversed the length of the baker. "You look gorgeous, Nellie."

"_Lynnette," he murmurs, contemplating the name plate declaring her middle name upon her bedroom door of the hereafter. "French origin. Its meaning is pretty one." His lips twist. "Not a very fitting name for you, is it?" _

But Nellie could tell that Reyna meant the compliment just as much as she had meant hers. She swallowed. "Thank you, love."

Reyna's gaze shifted to Nellie's left, to Sweeney, eyebrows lifting in – was that approval?

Nellie's stomach contorted and before she could stop herself, she was blurting out, "Oh, yes, forgot an introduction, sorry – Reyna, this is my – " _your what? He isn't your tenant – or lover – anymore, and introducing him as your murderer certainly isn't going to alleviate tension_ " – this is Sweeney Todd."

"Yes, we've met before," said Reyna, smiling.

Nellie's eyes whipped towards Sweeney, whose lips were a tight white slash across his face, but otherwise his face was composed. "When was this?" Nellie demanded, sharper than she meant to. She relaxed her tone to drawl, "Didn't realize that he'd made many acquaintances, is all."

Reyna swept her gaze over Sweeney once before returning her attention to Nellie with a smooth, pleased countenance. "Oh, I was just one of the many officers who tried to encourage him to enjoy his time in the afterlife – and the first successful one, I might add."

"Is that right?" said Nellie. "Well, you have my congratulations, then. And my condolences."

Sweeney's arm tightened inside the crook of hers, warningly, but Nellie ignored him, watching Reyna grin and bubble with easy laughter.

Albert came up beside his wife then, smiling when his gaze lighted on Nellie. She did a bit of a double take upon seeing him again, still not used to how bloody young he looked. As he was about fifteen years her senior, she had only ever known him while he was in his late thirties.

"Enjoying the evening?" he asked.

She smiled back. "Yes, indeed." _Dammit._ Another lie. But, well – what else was she supposed to say? Did he _really_ want the truth? _'Oh, yes, except for the fact that I'm only pretending to'_? _'I would be, if this mongrel here would snap out of his gloom'_?

She wasn't sure why Sweeney being completely apathetic was bothering her so much, really. It wasn't as though things between them were usually much else, especially since their deaths. But . . .

But she had wanted with all of her heart for this evening to be special. Different. She had wanted to have a good time and enjoy herself. Enjoy _existing_. Because she was starting to forget what happiness that was not a façade felt like.

_("I would never hide a thing from you")_

"May I ask who your friend is?" said Albert, casting his eyes over Sweeney.

"Oh – " Nellie jolted away from her thoughts " – sorry – this's Sweeney Todd."

"Well, pleased to meet you, sir." Albert put out her hand, and to Nellie's relief, Sweeney had come back to the real world enough to be able to put out his own arm for a shake, Albert giving him an odd look as he did so.

"Oh, the music is starting," Reyna voiced as the first chords of a tune swelled from the orchestra on the other side of the room. Grinning, she put a hand on Albert's shoulder – which she removed just as quickly, as though she had been burned, shooting the baker a glance.

Nellie, heart turning with strange pity and tenderness, nodded and smiled at Reyna – the first time such a gesture from her had been genuine in a long time. Albert had been a good husband to Nellie, it was true, but love each other they had not. Yet he had found his counterpart in the afterlife – and though Nellie was somewhat surprised by the emotion, she really, truly couldn't have been happier for him.

Reading Nellie's acceptance in her eyes, Reyna bit her lip, but gradually returned the smile. She placed her hand upon Albert's shoulder again. "Let's go dance."

Albert's features softened in a way Nellie had never seen. "As thy lady wishes," he teased. "Good evening to you, Nellie, Mr. . . . Todd."

Arm in arm, Mr. and Mrs. Lovett strolled onto the dance floor. Nellie grinned as the pair positioned themselves and began to dance.

Sensing her barber's eyes on her, she turned her gaze up to him. His brow was furrowed, eyes dark and – for the first time all evening – fixed on hers. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak.

"Was that – is that . . .?"

"Yes." Her eyes drifted onto the dance floor again. "That's Albert Lovett." She chuckled low in her throat. "In good shape, isn't he?"

His eyes roasted against her skin. She met his stare again. "Yes?" She didn't like how he was looking at her – she couldn't place the emotion in those bloody black eyes of his – and it disquieted her.

But before she could get a response out of him, Eloise Gardner came skipping over. "Hello Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lovett," she greeted, beaming, before turning her attention solely to Sweeney with a sweeping curtsey. "May I have this dance, Mr. Todd?"

Nellie grinned. Sweeney's brow, already rumpled with thought, creased further. "I don't really – " he began.

"Oh, but it will be fun!" Eloise encouraged, straightening from her curtsey. "None of the boys my age ever want to dance because they think girls are disgusting. I don't really like them anyway, but they needn't be so rude about it, don't you agree? And I've taken lots of ballroom dancing classes so you won't be tripping over my feet or anything." Her eyes widened, beseeching. "Please, Mr. Todd?"

Forehead smoothing, eyes locked on Eloise's, Sweeney nodded and moved towards her. Eloise's smiled broadened (any wider, Nellie half-mused, and it was going to crack her face). Taking Sweeney's hand, she flitted onto the dance floor. The girl only came up to Sweeney's waist, so their dancing was a bit unusual to watch, but there was no denying that she moved with grace. Soon they were twirling about the room like the most experienced of dancers.

– _but nothing like when _we_ would –_

Nellie didn't know precisely what it was about Eloise that Sweeney gravitated towards. The doe eyes and blonde ringlets, of course – but there had to be more to it than that. Perhaps she never would know what drew him to the child. Perhaps it didn't matter, so long as there was still _someone_ who could touch his heart, however softly.

_("only lied 'cause I love you")_

She began to rove the peripheries of the room, observing the other souls. Most she did not recognize, but she picked out a familiar face from the crowd every now and then: Miliani, the sweet dark-skinned girl who believed there was more to the afterlife than just this – Akello, the man who had led her to her room upon her arrival on Is (how long ago had that been, anyway? It couldn't have been that long ago, really, but it felt like half an eternity) – Anatoly – Doreen Rowbottom again, that fat, stupid –

Her eyes widened a bit when they rested upon Mrs. Mooney, her former rival-baker. Nellie recalled hearing of Griselda Mooney passing away several months before she did – rumor had it that her death was from a broken heart over losing her husband just weeks before – but she had not seen the woman on Is until today. (And judging from the way she was wrapped around some young, looking-eager-to-escape man, that rumor might not have been entirely truthful.)

"Good evening, Mrs. Lovett," came a voice from behind.

Nellie turned, rolling her eyes at her new companion. "I was wondering when you'd next show up to bother me. You used to be by my shop all the bleeding time when I first got here."

Barsid Sajemgi shot her his trademark grin. "And you never liked it when I did stop by, so why are you complaining?"

"I'm _not_ complaining. I'm commenting."

His teeth flashed under his widening smile. "I see. Would you like to dance?"

"Thank you, but no."

"Because . . .?"

Nellie folded her arms across her chest. "Do I need a reason? I'm not in the mood, that's all."

"You've been watching the dance floor rather avidly. I thought perhaps you were in want of a partner."

"Well, Mr. Sajemgi – " she gave a respectful incline of her head " – you thought wrong."

Rather than discourage or hurt him, this only served to stretch the grin even further across his face. The fool simply couldn't take a hint. Why did he always have to irritate her, anyway? Did he do this to everyone? If not, why her?

Her eyes narrowed. "D'you fancy me, sir?"

He laughed – actually _laughed _– right in her face. Nellie was affronted. It wasn't that she liked the man – she didn't – but the _nerve_ of him!

"No, Mrs. Lovett," he said. "You'll be quite relieved, I'm sure, to know that I do not have any – ah – romantic designs on you. But people can dance without love between them."

_("my pet")_

"So, what do you say?" Barsid held out his hand. "Will you share a dance with me?"

'No' was poised on her tongue, ready to be released – yet "yes" was what came tumbling from her lips. Sliding her palm on top of his _– soft skin, short fingers, smooth palms, so unlike –_ they strolled onto the dance floor, getting themselves situated just as a fresh tune started playing.

"Did you used to dance a lot?" Barsid questioned as they moved across the floor.

"Oh, now and then," was her breezy reply. "Why d'you ask?"

He gave a half-shrug. "You're very good."

Nellie found herself charmed by this remark despite herself. "Well, thank you, love. You're not half bad yourself."

Barsid's forehead knitted in mock thought. "I think there was a compliment somewhere in there."

"Somewhere in there," she returned, letting her eyes wander to the other souls again, settling on Sweeney and Eloise, who were still spinning about the room together. Eloise stepped and swirled with the unconscious grace of a girl on the cusp of adolescence – _something she'll never reach_ – a beautiful blur of blue fabric and yellow hair. Sweeney moved with the elegance he had always exuded, watching the girl with neutral features, giving away nothing of what he was feeling or thinking; and it was only because she knew him so well that she could tell he was there – _here_ – in the present, and not trapped in the past or his thoughts: the level brow, the relaxed muscles beneath his clothes, the focused-yet-free gaze. He was content.

_Congratulations, Nellie. You accomplished your goal of the evening._

You_ didn't accomplish it, fool._

But it had been done, and that was what mattered. For one blissful moment, Sweeney had been liberated from all his sorrows and regrets and contemplations.

_Now you've just got to do the same._

"So, how have you been?" said Barsid.

Nellie shifted her gaze back to him. "Fair, I s'pose."

"You suppose?"

"How're you?" she demurred.

"Quite well, thank you," he replied jovially. "My current mood is helped by the fact that I have such a talented dance partner."

"What a sweet talker you are."

"Is your business doing well?"

Nellie elevated her brow at his change in topics, but replied, "Splendid, actually."

"Mmm. And Mr. B – Todd? How is he fairing?"

She rolled her eyes. "You can never really tell with that man. One minute he'll be smirking and jesting away, and the next he'll be brooding and off in his own little world. His mood swings are as bad as a child two years old."

"Ah." Barsid tilted his head, but said no more than that.

The song ended; Barsid unclasped their hands and took a step back, bowing. "Thank you for the dance, Mrs. Lovett."

She winced. "You really don't have to address me so formally, y'know."

He seemed surprised at that. Straightening, he ran a hand over the shoulders of his suit, eyes and mouth rounded. "It's what you told me to call you."

"Well, that was when I was angry at you," she muttered, waving a hand.

"And now?"

She gave a slight smile. "Now I think you're annoying – but I'm not angry." A twinge on her heart, a shift of her mouth. "Not at you, at least." Just herself.

Barsid moved forward a step, touching her on the arm just as the chords of the next song began to play; for once, he was not grinning. "Eleanor – "

"Hello, Mrs. Lovett!" Eloise trilled as she and Sweeney swung towards them. "Did you see me dancing? And Mr. Todd? We went through three different songs, and – oh – " her eyes dropped to Barsid's fingers, which still rested upon Nellie's upper arm " – sorry, I didn't mean to – I'll chat with you later – "

"It's fine, El," Nellie soothed, disengaging herself from Barsid with a single step towards the girl. "You're not interrupting anything." Anything she wanted to continue, that was. "And you and Mr. Todd looked fantastic out there. Sure you don't want to have another spin 'round the floor with him?"

Eloise bobbed her head. "Yes, I'm sure – I'm short of air, I need to rest a bit." She squeezed Sweeney's hands. "Thank you so much for the dances, Mr. Todd. I had so much fun – didn't you?"

He nodded; Nellie warmed at his soft eyes, so rare for him. Eloise grinned up at her dance partner before prancing off. Nellie turned back to Barsid to thank him for the dance and ask if he'd like another – his footwork wasn't too shabby, really – only to find he had melted away into the crowd.

She pivoted back to Sweeney, a smile snaking onto her lips as a thought struck her. "Let's dance, love."

His eyebrows nearly met his hairline.

She was just as surprised by her words as he, truth be known. Dancing constituted as a part of their past. Surely that meant it was forbidden. Surely that meant they should not talk about it – and just nevermind _actually_ dancing together again.

But, really, dancing was a perfectly normal thing to do. And for God's sake, it wasn't as though everything in their past was against their silent laws: they still ate together, talked together, had even become accustomed to linking arms or other simple gestures involving Barsid had said, people could dance without love between them. _We never had that _between_ us anyway_. So why bloody not?

His hands intertwined with hers – _rough skin, long fingers, callused palms, perfect fit with mine, warm, so warm for a dead man – _and thieved her away from those thoughts. Apparently he was accepting her dance proposal.

They drew closer to each other, adjusting, preparing, melding. His right hand settled against her waist as hers came to rest on his shoulder; their other hands remained woven together. It was blindingly familiar, but – strangely – not uncomfortably so.

Just as they were about to join the other dancers, the melody faded away.

"Mmm, well, there'll be another one coming up soon," Nellie murmured. Sure enough, a new tune started up less than a point later.

Her heart gave out for a beat.

_No._

_It's coincidence, that's all, it means nothing, it doesn't matter, stop it,_ she chastised herself, forcing herself to breathe. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale

_oh God_

exhale.

The new song was a jaunty waltz . . . eerily similar to the tune he had sung to her back when – when –

"_And life is for the alive, my dear," he croons to her, each syllable laden with tenderness and truth and – no, she's not imagining it – love. Not lust, not carnality, but love, real love. He really loves her. And he had been listening to her, he had been – life is for the alive – those were her words, spoken just this afternoon – he hears what she says – he does feel more than desire for her – he does love her –_

– loves me_ –_

"_So lets keep living it . . ."_

_And they're dancing and spinning and oh God if it weren't for his strong arms around her she would have already melted into the floor – love – love – and he's all hers now, really hers – and soon she'll be his, and they'll be by the sea, and –_

– love _–_

" – _just keep living it – " she echoes him blissfully, hardly conscious of her mouth moving, so overwhelmed with emotion, overwhelmed that he finally feels for her as she does for him –_

– but _–_

– _but something isn't –_

_Her eyes widen. _

No.

" – _really _living it_!"_

– my love_ –_

_And then his arms are throwing her and she is falling and screaming and pain pain _pain_ –_

If Sweeney was at all unsettled by the melody, he did not give any indication of it; his body did not shift, nor did his mask of calm. For all she knew, he wasn't even aware of what she was acutely, painfully attune to.

They began to dance.

"Why so tense, pet?" he murmured midway through the number.

"Hmm? What? I'm not," she fibbed.

But she was – she knew it, and he knew it. Once, they had notsomuch danced together as they had moved together, coasted together –flowed together – companions, counterparts – one. . . . Now, her movements were jerky, stiff.

Nellie frowned. "I'm sorry, dear. Just out of practice, I s'pose."

Judging from the slight cant of his head, he did not seem to believe her, but all the same he said no more, and merely went on leading her about the room.

Despite her initial discomfort, as the music played on Nellie felt her tension ebb away, her taut muscles easing. And so the pair shifted through the first song, stepped through the second song, swayed through the third, swirled through the fourth, glided through the fifth . . .

It was comforting. This fleck of familiarity in a cloud of foreign, strange things . . . she welcomed it like she never would have thought she'd welcome such a matter, such a concept of what once was. She had spent most of her afterlife intent on not dwelling in the past, and yet now she was reveling in it. In this.

_("you've got to leave all that behind you now")_

And a strange thought occurred to her then: maybe not all of the past had to be left behind in order to move forward.

During their dancing, Sweeney did not talk much – but, for once, neither did Nellie. Save for the occasional comment about another spirit in the room, or a light barb, the two were silent. And Nellie found that she was okay with that, with twirling through the room without speaking, with just being. Guilt and regret would return in full swing tomorrow, she half-contemplated as they spun about. But for right now, she was content and free; she was happy.

They soared through dance after dance with not a single break in-between. Soon she lost count of how many tunes they had gone through. She found herself getting a little out of breath.

_Don't be ridiculous, you don't need to breathe, you have no lungs._

Besides, she did not want to stop; she was having a good time.

She eyed Sweeney as he lifted his arm and twirled her beneath it. Stupid prat – he didn't seem at all short of air. Well, then, she'd just pretend that she wasn't either.

But even Nellie Lovett, master of deception, could not disguise the way her intakes of air were beginning to sound more like wheezing pants than mere breathes.

"Just a little winded from all this moving about, is all," she said in response to his querying look. "I mean, I know that's silly, seeing as I don't really need to breathe anyway, but of course I remember breathing and how it used to feel and how I once required it, so . . ."

Pulling her a little closer against him, a devilish smile graced Sweeney Todd's lips. Her skin rippled, her airway contorted, her heart knotted, and it did not matter in that moment how much she normally tried to repress these sensations because thought and reason did not matter right then, only the way he was spinning her around and his glinting eyes and his smile and his touch and _him_.

With a sharp whirl of their maneuvering feet, he whispered to her, "Death is for the alive, my dear."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. The whirl of back-to-school has begun, meaning updates will probably be posted every month rather than every week. Hopefully, the extreme length (and the excitement? ;]) of this chapter makes up for that!

In happier news, the review record has been broken! You darling readers left me EIGHTEEN whole reviews for the last chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you. THANK YOU. ^^;; Will it sound too ungrateful if I push you to beat that record? Do you think we can get nineteen reviews for this chapter?

Anonymous review replies:

_That One_: Me, a bloody wonder? I do believe there is no higher compliment. ^^ Thanks very much, m'dear!

_Guest_: Sha la la la la la, music play, do what the music say, you gotta kiss the girl. . . . Sorry, your review just really made me want to sing that, LOL. Unfortunately, Sweeney – bless him – does not have nearly as much common sense as you do. xD Give him a little credit for at least being civil towards Nellie, eh? ;] Anyhow, thanks so much for the review!

_Jillian the porcelain maiden_: Oh, there is MUCH more to come, don't worry. xD If my calculations are correct – and very often they are not, mind you (there's a reason I'm hanging around FF-Net and not Math dot Com! xD) – we've a bit under twenty chapters to go. Sweeney and Nellie aren't going anywhere soon, and so neither am I. ;] Thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_Guest_: Oh, thank you, m'dear! I'm humbled. A reunion between Toby and Nellie? Well, I can't very well spoil my own story, haha . . . but I will tell you that Toby is not going to be wandering far from Nellie's mind anytime soon. Thank you for the kind words!

_Melisa20_: Ah, don't feel bad about almost missing Reyna's 'secret' identity! It was pretty subtle, but will be made a bit more explicit in the next chapter (well, this chapter). Yes, Sweeney does have a rough decision approaching fast! Hmm . . . ;] Anywho, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!

_Sweenettshipper_: No need to apologize, m'dear – I'm just glad you found this fic eventually! And hey, we still have about halfway to go, so you came at at good time. ;D Thank you so much for all of your kind words!

_DrReviewer_: Glad to hear that you're enjoying the fic so much, and thank you for R-&-R-ing!


	18. Sustenance

_We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. – Plato_

xxx

Pale, powder blue eyes were fixed upon hers. They burned against the darkness of her eyelids, clear as though her gaze were open wide rather than shut, silently scolding and accusing and hating. She shrugged away from the glare and rolled onto her other side, burrowing deeper beneath her blanket.

But the eyes were still there, cleaving into her like the heaviest of those axes she'd used to strip away the meat from her lover's victims . . . she'd never thought twice about those silver sharp edges hacking into skin and sinew . . . but now felt nauseous at these blue blades hacking into what only existed in her mind . . .

She twisted over onto her back in a vain attempt to beckon sleep. It was so hard to believe that only a chord ago, she had been cheerful. Pleased. Goddammit, she'd been happy. For one of the first times since dying, actual happiness was hers as she celebrated a wedding of the hereafter, and she had been frolicking in it, reveling in it – dancing in it – dancing with him . . .

Yet here she lay, sprawled sleeplessly upon her cot, legs extended and hands folded over her chest like a corpse _(oh, aren't you clever, Lovett)_. The blue eyes of her victim silently, deservedly murdering her soul all the while, as she had murdered his.

Time whittled away as a wood-carver whittles away an arrowhead, flicking off one splinter at a time, pieces so small that no difference was noticeable. Points dawdled by, slowly forming one chord, then two, then three, then too many to keep track of. And through it all, Toby's eyes stayed locked on hers, forbidding rest. This was nothing new – she often felt his reproachful eyes on her – but now it was worse than ever. Her compensation for her night of bliss.

_Demons do not know bliss, Nellie, haven't you learned that by now? Bliss is for the sinless, the angels . . . and you, my love, my pathetic darling, are neither._

She threw open her eyes. She couldn't pretend any longer.

Ripping off her blanket, she vaulted from the bed and melted into the floor – into the netherlands.

Without hesitation, she began to march across the too-bright grass. She did not hesitate because there was no break in her resolve: She was going to the waters that led to Earth and she was going to find Toby.

Time continued to chip away into meaningless, endless pieces. Beneath her, as she stomped onward, her legs began to shake. Her eyes blurred as she scanned the landscape repeatedly for those gray waters, that murky passageway to Earth. They couldn't be too difficult to locate . . . she'd done it before, after all . . . but there were no landmarks in the netherlands, nor signs indicating which way one was to travel – for all she knew, they could have still been miles away, or more . . .

The tremors of her limbs intensified, but she kept pushing herself, faster now, her purposeful stomps turning to brisk paces turning to stumbling runs. Her chest heaved and her lungs squeezed with the exertion. Everything around her brimmed with color and light, the sun just beginning to rise in the fire-streaked sky; it seemed to mock her with its radiance.

Unable to keep moving, her legs gave out, and she toppled to the ground, trembling, exhausted.

This wasn't giving up, this going to Earth, she told herself as the grass blades stabbed the bare skin of her neck. She wasn't throwing in the towel, not like his stupid wife. Nellie Lovett was willing to admit she was senseless in many respects – _such as still being in love with your goddamn murderer, hmm?_ – but even she would not stoop to the level of Lucy Barker. No – defeat was a word that she was never going to have applied to her.

And this was not defeat. She would go back to Is as soon as she found Toby. Nellie had no plans to waste away into nothing anytime soon. Just a quick glimpse of her boy, that was all she needed – just to confirm that he was okay – and then she could live out the rest of her afterlife in peace.

Inhaling deeply, Nellie pulled herself to her feet and began on her trek again. She would find the waters eventually.

Her eyes widened as they fastened on an area some distance to her right. It was the sun _(it still hasn't completely risen yet? why is that? granted, time is irrelevant and doesn't follow the same linear pattern as it does on Earth, but still)_, settled gently over the horizon.

Except it was like no sunrise she had ever seen before. The sky stretched further into the ground than normal – and yet the ground rose up higher than it typically did to meet it – a great smudge of hues and tints, blues and yellows and pinks and reds and purples and greens and oranges, as though the earth and the sky were melting together . . .

Her wearied feet moved of their own accord towards the spectacle. At first, it seemed as though she could get no closer to it – as though each of her footsteps was for naught, as though the ground was pulling her in the opposite direction of her paces – but gradually, the place where the soil and atmosphere met grew nearer . . .

"Don't go over there."

Nellie started and whirled around. A woman whom she had not noticed before sat at the base of a nearby willow tree. The woman smiled when their gazes locked.

The baker's brow creased and she passed her eyes over the woman. She looked as though she lived outside full-time: once-black Is robes were faded and smeared with dirt; brown hair more mused and ratty than even Nellie's on a bad day, hanging in tangled curtains down her back, a few twigs stuck among the strands; skin tanned from sun. Her features, however, were youthful

– _and somewhat familiar, why does she look familiar –_

– _you and your 'somewhat familiar' faces, honestly, she's probably just someone you once passed on the street –_

complete with sparkling eyes and a charming sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"Why shouldn't I go there?" Nellie asked.

"You'll never come back." She possessed only traces of an English accent, Nellie noticed, as though the wilderness had worn it away. "Spirits who've gone into the joining never return to Is. Don't ask me what happens to them – if they're in some other afterlife, or if they don't exist anymore – because I don't know. But they don't ever come back."

"Oh," said Nellie. "Well. That's good to know."

"That's why I'm here," the woman continued. "To try and prevent souls from wandering places they shouldn't. . . . There are several others who do this too – at different locations in the nethers, I mean." Her eyes

– _powder blue, so pale, so young, so like – _

– _no no no, don't go there –_

darkened. "Of course, we're not sure what all of the things in the netherlands are, and we don't much like experimenting . . ."

"Are you put here by the Is officials?"

"Yes – these are positions of employment, if that's what you mean."

Nellie shook her head, bemused. "So even though the authorities refuse to acknowledge this place, they still hire people to watch over it?"

The other woman smiled. "They do refuse to acknowledge the nethers publically, it's true . . . but they also know that, one way or another, many souls eventually discover them. Forbidden fruit, moth to the flame . . . you know how it is."

"Mmm, yes. Well – erm, thank you – "

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the woman with a laugh as she rose to her feet. "I interact with so few people these days that I don't know how to behave around other souls anymore. Didn't even introduce myself properly, did I?" She strolled over to Nellie, brushing willow branches to the side as she moved, and held out her arm. "I'm Angie Ragg."

"Nellie Lovett," the baker somehow managed to enunciate as they shook hands.

The familiarity of the woman wasn't just from a passing glance, then – that rusty-brown hair color – the spray of freckles along the nose – and of course those light eyes. . . . She was familiar because Nellie had known someone of her kin. She was familiar because she was related to Tobias Ragg.

"Would you like any help out of the netherlands?" Angie asked.

"Oh, no, I can find my own way," said Nellie, patting the other female's hand as she released it from her grip. "And I still haven't – "

She broke off, unsure if – as Angie was employed by Is officials – that would mean Angie would force her to return to Is without she first going to Earth . . .

Angie, however, only winked. "Don't worry. My job is to stop souls from entering the joining, not from going elsewhere. You do as you like, and then be on your way back to Is, alright?"

"That's precisely my plan, love."

"Just be careful while wandering. All of the known dangers are guarded, but . . . well, we can't know all of dangers. This place is simply too big." At Nellie's wary look, Angie reached out and touched her on the shoulder. "Don't go towards anything unusual that you don't know what it is – that's all I'm trying to say."

"To the waters and back is all I want."

Angie nodded and dropped her arm. "Well – good luck. Hopefully I won't see you again" – she grinned – "but if you do happen to ever be pulled towards the joining again, I'll stop you."

Nellie smiled and bobbed her head. "Thanks, dear."

They exchanged good-byes, then Nellie turned her back on the joining and went on her way again, fresh determination to find Toby kindling each of her steps. She didn't know what relation Angie was to Toby – she could be anyone as close as his mother (her heart twinged) to anyone as distant as his uncle's cousin's brother's wife – but that didn't matter. After seeing Angie, Nellie now knew she had to find where Toby was not just for her sake, but for this relative of his. It justified her purpose.

She kept walking.

xxx

"Would it be so bloody difficult to have a map of this place somewhere?" Nellie cried in frustration.

There was no one around to hear her, but she was too irritated to care about such details. Besides, she was more than used to carrying on a conversation by herself.

"I mean, honestly!" she shouted to the vast sky of the netherlands, which currently had on display a sunset of lovely purples, reds, and golds that she would have greatly appreciated under less infuriating circumstances. In utter rage and exhaustion, she flopped belly-down upon the grass. "It'd be the least you lot – whoever you are – could do, don't you think? To have a map? Or at least a few signs and arrows? 'This way to the joining'! 'Over here for the waters'!

"Oh, y'know what'd also be nice? Some signs marking what foods are safe to eat, and which lakes are safe to drink from. I ate some berries what turned the whole world upside-down the other day – circle – " she let out a growl and gestured wildly at the sky " – and that's another thing I don't get! Are they days or circles here? Does time even _pass _here? 'Sides from my needs to eat and sleep and piss, I can't tell if any time goes by at all. It always seems to be either sunrise or sunset here, nothing in-between. Why's that? How d'you even _manage_ that?

"And I'm fucking tired of trying to find the waters!" she screeched, kicking at the grass.

She was well aware of how stupid she was acting, and that letting her anger get the best of her certainly wasn't going to help the situation any. But, well, any other soul would have thrown a tantrum long ago if in her shoes, she reasoned to herself. Any other soul would have long ago completely lost their marbles under the strain of trying for who-the-hell-knew how many circle-days to get to the waters, nevermind being plagued by the gazes of Toby and Sweeney and –

Her breath seized in her throat.

It were as though God had suddenly decided to listen to her always-unheard screams and extend His hand – that was what she would have thought had she still believed in God, at least – for there, _there_ on the horizon . . .

Her fatigue no longer matter; she bolted to her feet and raced across the field. When she came to the border of the grass, she ceased her movement, teetering for a moment upon the edge.

The edge where the grass ended and the waters began.

xxx

It had been eleven circles since Lovett had come to bring him any of his meals. Sweeney found this very peculiar. The woman had always had a temper, _oh_ yes, but she had never managed to stay angry at him for long. Even after the worst of her tantrums, she'd always at least mostly recovered by the next day . . . and even when mad at him, she'd never failed to deliver his food. What could he have possibly done now?

_Well, it couldn't possibly be because you _killed _her._ _That wouldn't make sense at all._

But she had long since moved past that. Well, perhaps moved past was the wrong way to phrase it. But just as he had finally accepted his current situation, so she had seemed to accept hers.

He had not seen her since the wedding. Something had happened that night. Something he couldn't name. Something he didn't like, though he still couldn't place what.

_Because for once you weren't miserable. Because for once you _felt_. Because for once you forgot –_

He crushed this thought and his pathetic attempts at a sculpture – his first to take on a human shape – within his fist, demolishing both in an instant. The sweat on his palm seeped into the clay.

Yet her absence still did not make sense. Though he was loathe to admit it to himself, there was no point in denying what was plain as day: ever since he had returned from Earth, a certain companionship had fostered between them. Certainly not a friendship, and certainly nothing like when they were alive

– _don't don't God no don't think on_ that_ –_

but however feeble, it was something, and that was more than he could say for himself and most souls on Is. So what had happened? Had he upset her?

He snarled at the smashed sculpture, lifted himself to his feet in a motion so rapid his chair clattered to the ground, and began to pace the room, rubbing the fettling knife's handle between his fingertips. And what if he had upset her? What did it matter to him? Each of her pains was his pleasure.

– _pain and pleasure –_

_there is always a mural of bruises along her body the next day, but she does not seem to mind, in fact she presents several of them with savage grins as he tears off her clothes; and it is not as though he flees unmarked either, no, not with her long nails scratching diagrams of senseless pleasure along his back, not with her surprisingly strong hands pushing and grabbing his flesh with equal appetite to his, not with_

With another snarl, he wrenched himself back to the present.

Pleasure from her pain or not, she had been delivering his meals up until eleven circles ago, and he missed this convenience. Sure, there were many other spirits to buy food from, but leaving his shop required extra interaction with other people – not one of his favorite things. Besides, they _charged_ for their gin.

That settled it, then. He would just have to go talk to her and try to (he winced) apologize for whatever he had done. It would be worth it once unlimited alcohol was his again. Walking forward, thinking the name of her shop repeatedly, Sweeney stepped through the nearest wall.

But he ended up still within his own shop.

Frowning, he tried again – only to receive the same results.

Why had she locked _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_? It was only jade; she was always open until purple. Perhaps she was taking a day off, or out shopping again. Or in her bedroom. He moved to step towards the wall again and go there, but paused. Last time he had shown up unannounced in her room, she had been naked, and . . . well, it wasn't a situation he cared to repeat.

He should go to_ his_ room first, he decided, and then walk across the hall and knock on her door. Yes. That was the best course of action here. So Sweeney stepped through the wall and into his room, stalked through the door and into the corridor, and then knocked upon _Eleanor Lynnette Lovett_'s door.

There was no answer. No call of 'come in' or 'who is it?', no shuffle of feet moving towards the door, not even a soft rustle or creak to indicate she was in there avoiding him. His eyes narrowed at the gold letters bearing her name.

A whisper of fabric from behind prompted Sweeney to whirl around, hand intuitively flying for the razor he no longer had upon seeing who the new arrival was.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Todd," said Turpin, with a cordial nod. The bastard was still obviously trying to pretend as though the pair were friends; perhaps he hoped to rejoin the Is courtrooms, earn back the status he had lost since his demotion to farmer. "Excuse me."

He brushed past Sweeney – blood flooded his head and drummed with such force in his ears it was a miracle that liquid rubies didn't come spurting out the canals – and knocked upon Lovett's door, frowning in thought when he received the same non-results as Sweeney.

Turpin spared Sweeney another glance. "Have you seen Mrs. Lovett as of late?"

"Why do you care?" Sweeney growled.

The judge held up his hands. "I am merely wondering why her shop has been closed for so long. There isn't a better baker"

_("in all of London!")_

"on Is. And I only inquired you about the matter because I know the pair of you are friends." Friends was hardly the word for what they were, but Sweeney wasn't in the mood to quibble over words; the blood was still hot and throbbing in his head. "You did not answer my question, by the way. Have you seen her recently?"

A stream of thoughts entered Sweeney's mind like a strike of lightning, like a window flooded with sunlight, like a dam broke open: _Turpin – Turpin always around – always showing up – playing innocent – apologizing – trying to earn my trust – Lovett – Lovett not here – _

– _Lovett –_

Sweeney closed in on Turpin, backing him against the wall, hands clenched so tight all blood had left them, forcing even more of it to his pounding ears; and it was then that he vaguely realized a fettling knife was still closed between his right fingers. Turpin stepped backwards, one eyebrow quirking, mouth bending into a frown.

"What did you do?" Sweeney demanded.

"Mr. Todd, I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about," said Turpin, seeming more irritated than afraid as his back hit the wall, as though dealing with a jittery stray dog rather than a murderous man. "Nor do I have any clue why you appear to be threatening me: you do remember where senseless hostility landed us last time, do you not?"

Sweeney didn't hear him, couldn't hear him as he leaned close enough to nearly taste the man's rancid breath. Turpin had done something to her – or was doing something – or both . . . it all made sense now, all of it. Turpin had donned an incognito of gentleness and repentance in order to earn Sweeney's trust, so that he would not be suspected when he then . . . well, Sweeney did not know what precisely Turpin planned to do with her – or what he had already done with her –

The possibilities exploded before his eyes in flickering and flashing firecrackers: beating her within an inch of life – abandoning her somewhere – locking her in a room and throwing away the key – putting his hands all over her bare –

Sweeney was shaking with such terrible rage his lips could barely form his next words: "Don't lie to me – you know exactly what I'm speaking of. What did you do?"

Turpin spread his hands in a gesture of peace. "I thought we agreed to put our past behind us, Mr. Todd – try to move forward with our lives – "

"_What did you do to her?"_ Sweeney roared.

Turpin shook his head, forehead creasing in his deepening annoyance. "Who?"

Sweeney's fury was beyond his grasp; he smashed a fist against the space of wall beside Turpin's head. _"Eleanor Lovett."_

Turpin let out a little laugh, although he quickly seemed to realize that this was a mistake when Sweeney's other fist formed a crater in the wall to the right of his skull. His eyes flicked briefly to the knife's blade – still between the right fingers of the barber's hand – before settling on Sweeney's again, offering him a smile of equal parts appeasement and amusement: Sweeney had transformed from a pesky fly to a toddler in need of placating. "Is _that _what all this commotion is over? You're upset because you believe I have my eyes upon your woman?"

"_No – "_

But Turpin cut him off before he could finish denying this statement. "I assure you, Mr. Todd, that is _far_ from the case. Mrs. Lovett and I are purely acquaintances, nothing more – nor am I trying to change that." He chuckled. "Even if I was trying for her affections – which I am most assuredly not – I doubt it would do much good; she has hated me with a passion for many years now."

Lungs still working furiously, blood still hammering in his head, Sweeney stared at Turpin, who only looked back calmly, unfazed as Sweeney twirled the fettling knife between his fingers and traversed his eyes over the expanse of Turpin's neck. Perhaps now was the time to put to rest all his questions about what would happen if a soul's throat was slit . . .

No. Now was not the time. For if he cut Turpin's throat, and it rendered him unconscious – or sent him to another afterlife – then Sweeney would not find out what the judge had done to Lovett. He needed answers right now, not revenge.

"I don't believe you," Sweeney finally ground out between his teeth.

Turpin's reassurance was fast giving way to his irritability again: he straightened now, demeanor becoming brisk. "It is unfortunate that you do not believe me, because I tell nothing but the truth. I have no idea where Mrs. Lovett is. Why would I loiter outside her room cluelessly if I had 'done something' to her?"

Sweeney did not have a reply to this, but he was not to be fooled so easily, and continued to glower; if he had to stand here for circles on end, so be it – he would eventually find out what the bastard had done.

Turpin, however, was not quite so willing; he seemed to grow bored with the barber's glare. "If you have nothing further to say," he drawled sardonically, "would you mind being a gentleman and letting me go? I do have other matters to attend to today, as I'm sure you do."

Blood continued to pulsate through his skull, but his breathing was beginning to return to normal, along with rational thought. Perhaps the judge was speaking the truth . . . perhaps he had not done anything to her. Turpin had never shown an interest in Lovett before, after all.

– _unless like with Lucy you just didn't notice until it was too late –_

But it was Benjamin Barker who had not noticed the way Judge Turpin had designs upon his wife, not Sweeney Todd. It was Benjamin Barker who had been too foolish to see what was right in front of his nose until said nose was thrust into Australia. It was Benjamin Barker who was too naïve to realize that the world wasn't beautiful. Sweeney Todd was not unobservant, foolish, or naïve; he would have noticed if Turpin was ogling Mrs. Lovett. Besides, Turpin went after women who possessed beauty

– _not pretty never pretty –_

so what would he want with the unappealing pie maker?

Sweeney lowered his arms to his sides. Turpin stepped around the other man until he stood a few safe paces away.

"Well, good circle to you, Mr. Todd." Turpin bowed at the waist, but his eyes did not leave Sweeney's: the mixed gesture both offered respect to the barber and commanded that respect be given to himself. "If you do hear from Mrs. Lovett, please inform me." With a final smile, Turpin stepped through the wall and vanished.

xxx

_Where is he?_

Nellie bit her lip, stepping briefly through the wall into another house, then back out and into another.

_Toby . . ._

She had been walking upon Earth for three days. Three times she had watched the sun rise and set. She had no notion how many circles that was; Earth time and Is time were completely irrelevant to each other, and she had yet to figure out if one was slower or if one was faster or perhaps if one of them sped up and slowed down of its own will.

Not that it mattered. No matter how one divvied up the time she'd spent wandering London looking for Toby – days, circles, hours, chords, minutes, moments, heartbeats – it had been a long time. And she was beginning to realize just how hopeless and pathetic her situation was.

She had no idea where Toby was.

The workhouses had been where she'd stopped first, thinking that perhaps he'd been rounded up by one of them upon her demise. She had seen the thin faces of many boys while looking through the windows . . . but not the thin face of her boy.

_Can't very well think of him as _yours_ now, Eleanor. No real mother would have abandoned their child. He no more belongs to you than any of those other kids._

Next, desperate, she had fled to 186 Fleet Street, only to be faced with what she already knew: the place was abandoned. Both the barber and pie shop had been left behind, forsaken, half-ruined, windows broken and doors barely hanging to their hinges and signs scratched and defaced. The police must have taken a gander at the bakehouse, then, and exploited the tales of her renowned meat pies to the public: the citizens would have come in hordes to destroy what remained of the demons of Fleet Street. She knew she would have suffered horribly at the masses' hands, had she been alive – and yet she almost wished she had been alive to see their faces when they first heard what they had been so happily consuming –

"_So unsuspecting," he whispers as they stand at his shop window, looking down upon the people walking past the currently closed pie shop, bestowing affectionate gazes upon it as they stroll by. His mouth is so close to her ear that his breath washes over her skin._

_She needs him closer; she always needs him closer; he's never close enough, even when they're laced as close as two humans can possibly be. She leans against him, side against side, head against shoulder, keeping her eyes upon the streets. "Mmm. Yes."_

_One hand buries in her hair, removing the haphazardly-placed pins and letting the tangles tumble down her back, and then he begins to braid it. It's an absent-minded habit of his he's adopted lately, one she does not understand . . . nor one she objects to._

"_So unsuspecting," he says again, fingers stroking her scalp every now and then as he continues to twine her tangled tresses into a braid. "Each and every one."_

"_Well, why would they suspect?" she hums. "We only pick people what won't be missed: men with no families, men from out of town . . ." She grins. _

_She is not facing him, is still against his side, but he must notice the upward curve of her mouth. "Do you like it, pet?"_

"_Hmm? Like what, dear?"_

_His fingers ghost against her scalp again, and even though the touch is lighter than a feather, this time it seems purposeful rather than accidental. "The lies." The fingers again caress her head. She's finding herself short of air. "The deceit." Once more they brush her skull. "The games you play with them." Down to the nape of her neck. "The games _we_ play with them." Now they kiss the top of her spine._

_She smiles, breathless. "Yes, Mr. Todd." _

_Truth be known, she would agree to just about anything he says right now, with her body pressed to his side and his hand skimming deliciously between her hair and her skin . . . but nonetheless, what she speaks is dead honest. She does delight in this wicked secret of theirs, delights in the deceit – delights most of all that she shares it with him –_

She had not allowed herself to go inside the building; thoughts and feelings and memories were spewing at her from every direction as it was, and the last thing she needed was to provoke them further. And it wasn't as though Toby was hiding out in the dilapidated shop; her boy – _not yours, Lovett, not yours_ – _the_ boy was smarter than that.

After leaving Fleet Street, she realized that she had no clue where else Toby would be. So she had begun the pursuit she was still set upon – gliding without aim or direction from street to street, through house after house, shop after shop, peeking, looking, scouring. . . .

Nothing was yielded from such efforts. Once, in desperation, she had prodded her stomach with her hand, hoping that the strange, invisible rope that had pulled her to Sweeney all those circles/days ago would perhaps kick in and take her to Toby. No such luck.

There must be a way to find him. There had to be. Sweeney had somehow found Johanna, after all; how had he accomplished that? She should have asked him before she left. No, it was probably wise that she hadn't, on second thought. He most likely would have made her stay on Is.

_Made you stay on Is? Why would he have done that? Don't kid yourself, Lovett. The man doesn't care about you. He wouldn't give a damn one way or the other if you decided to go._

Yes . . . it was definitely better she had not consulted him on the matter before leaving.

_I'm going to find you, Toby. I don't care how long it takes me. I know I broke all my other promises to you . . . but not this one. Not this one._

She sucked in a breath.

_I will find you._

xxx

"Do you have a few points, Mr. Todd?"

Sweeney's brow furrowed: Eloise Gardner stood in the doorway to his room, her features molded into an expression of concern. His chest tightened. "Yes. Of course."

"I can't stay long because Daddy doesn't like me being out of my room past scarlet, and it's already a quarter 'til, so I really need to be getting back soon. I just wanted to talk for a bit – ask you . . ."

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Where is Mrs. Lovett?" Eloise blurted out, eyes creasing with worry lines that no ten-year-old girl should have possessed. "I haven't seen her in – well, I've lost count of the circles – but it's been many, at least ten, I think more. . . . She hasn't opened shop during all that time. Anatoly and I go there every morning of every circle, but she never shows up, and the door's always locked. And I've been by her room a few times but that door's always locked too, and I was wondering if you knew – if you had any idea – where she would most want to go – ?"

_The sea._

"No idea," he growled.

The worry lines in her face deepened; he wished to smooth them away. "But I wouldn't worry about Mrs. Lovett," he managed to say. "She is a very – adept woman. More than capable of handling difficulties, should they have arisen."

Eloise didn't look reassured. "But – but where could she possibly be? If she's not in her room or her shop – and I've asked some of her friends and acquaintances and suchlike, they don't know where she is either . . ." She shifted from foot to foot, discomfort sprinkling her anxiety. "I was thinking – possibly the netherlands . . .? If there was something she wasn't happy with . . . something she's been concealing . . ."

"_I do wish I got to go one last time before dying, though . . ."_

Eloise was amazingly perceptive for a child of ten years, Sweeney half-contemplated. Then again, by all technical terms, she was his elder by a good five centuries. Souls upon Is did not seem to mentally mature in the same way a living being did . . . but on the other hand, knowledge did seem to accumulate, as knowledge tended to with new experiences.

"_D'you have any regrets?"_

"Mr. Todd?"

"It's possible," he murmured.

She latched onto this idea, this one sprig of hope, like it was salvation itself. "You do? You think it's possible she's at the nethers? What area? What hasn't she been happy about? I noticed that she seemed to be hiding something, especially in the circles before she left, but she would always put on a cheery face whenever I asked about it. Do you think she would try to travel to another afterlife? Is there someone she'd want to see there? Or would she try to leave the afterlife altogether? Or go to Earth? Or maybe just escape from the main area of Is for a few days? Or what if – "

"I don't know," he broke in. _I don't care,_ is what he was telling himself repeatedly. "Eloise, it's nearly scarlet, your curfew – "

If Eloise heard this interruption, she did not acknowledge it. " – what if she wanted to get trapped in dreams? There's this one place in the nethers that makes your fantasies seem as real as any reality – "

"Eloise." He got down on his knees and took her hands in his. "I don't know where Mrs. Lovett is. But you need to go back to your room now before the clock strikes scarlet."

Her gaze was filled with tears, he noticed now that they were on eye-level. "You and Mrs. Lovett are friends, aren't you, Mr. Todd?" (Thankfully, he did not have to answer this question, for the girl plowed right on ahead.) "Will you help find her? I mean – she might be perfectly fine . . . but she might need help. Won't you help me look for her?"

His first instinct was to reply 'yes, of course,' but logic infiltrated at the last moment before he could say this, preventing his mouth from forming the words. Yes, it was true that he had tried to find Lovett some circles ago in order to regain unrestricted access to her gin . . . and yes, it was also true that he wanted more than anything right then to see a smile return to Eloise's face . . .

But Eleanor Lovett was gone. Finally, truly gone from his existence. No longer did she lurk persistently, popping in and out of his proximity without warning. Why she wasn't around, where she had gone off to, what to do about his gin situation – did any of that really matter? The woman was at last out of his hair.

_. . . but not out of mind . . ._

She was gone. Bloody good and gone. And didn't he want to keep it that way?

"Mr. Todd?" Eloise gripped his hands, enclosed upon hers still.

Well, of _course_ he wanted to keep it that way. His she-devil no longer hunted after him; had he still been in God's favor, he might have thought it to be a blessing.

Then again . . . he did not want to see any more hurt in those cornflower-colored eyes of this child's – could not even entertain the notion of being the reason for that hurt, which he knew would be the case should he refuse to help for his own selfish reasons . . .

And he did miss – the gin. Yes. The free gin. Sure, gin was cheap, but not in the quantities he drank.

So would it really be so bad to have Lovett around again? He supposed not. He had become immune to her, really. Her lack of presence was welcome, certainly . . . but when the negatives weighted against the benefits – or, in other words, everything weighted against gin – well, it was clear that the scale tipped in the direction of the gin.

He could stomach Lovett if it meant having something_ else_ in his stomach too, he reasoned with the resignation of a man who, deep down, always knew he would relent.

"Yes," said Sweeney, "I will look for Mrs. Lovett."

* * *

><p>And the tension mounts . . .<p>

I apologize for the slight delay in this chapter. My university schedule is crazier than I originally anticipated. But better late than never, eh?

Anywho, as always, reviews are love.

Anonymous review replies:

_Guest_: Oh, I agree, AU stories can be fabulous too. But I've always been curious as to how Sweeney and Nellie would deal with the destruction that they both leave behind at the end of the musical – if they could deal with it at all, in fact. I hope you did not suffer withdrawl too badly while waiting for this chapter! Anywho, thank you for R-&-R-ing!

_Jillian the porcelain maiden_: A patient waiter? What does that even mean? xD Haha, but in all seriousness, thanks for your support and your continued reviews. Barsid isn't going anywhere soon, don't worry. ;]

_Guest:_ Here's an update! ;] I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for leaving a review!

_Guest: [I don't know if you are also the first Guest?]_ Ah! I am very sorry about your withdrawl symptoms. I have discussed creating a DIFTA rehab clinic with a few other readers; perhaps you would also be intetested? xDD


	19. Broken Vows

_When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies. – William Shakespeare_

xxx

He had vowed never to come back here.

He should have known not to make such a vow; he should have known it would not be kept. But it was different this time. He had not come to Earth to see Johanna. He had come to find Eleanor Lovett.

Was she on Earth? He didn't know. But after a lengthy discussion with Eloise – not to mention many discussions within his mind – a conclusion had at last been made: that the most likely place Lovett would be was Earth. She may have liked to pretend otherwise, but he knew there were things bothering her about the past. Perhaps she had gone to address some of them.

After seeing what had happened to him on Earth – not to mention how fiercely she detested the word defeat – the theory that she would have gone to Earth was fragile at best. It was the best, however, that they had come up with.

A part of him still could not believe he was trying to find her. The she-devil who had never rained anything but hell upon him was finally absent from his presence – and now, _now_, after wishing for so long she would just leave him alone – he was attempting to bring her back into his existence.

_It isn't for me. It's for Eloise._

_And the gin._

The only problem was that, as had been the case with Johanna, he could not begin to fathom where the stupid woman was. Oh, he'd had a few ideas initially – he'd wandered around Fleet Street, meandered through the market place, had even walked the fifty miles to the seaside . . . but she had been at none of these places.

Where else could she be? How was he supposed to find her? He had found Johanna through pure luck, complete coincidence. He couldn't loiter around forever expecting the same thing to happen this time.

_Dammit, Eleanor. Where are you?_

A yank upon his abdomen distracted him from thought. His gaze shot to his midsection. Had he just felt – ? No . . . it must have been imagined. Nothing upon Earth was solid to a soul save the ground and other spirits. He couldn't even feel it when a living human walked right through him, for pity's sake.

But – but there was still something there – something tugging at his stomach . . . a persistent tug, with a specific direction, like –

_his hands and feet are shackled, forcing him to stumble and slam repeatedly against the other bodies sticky with sweat and pain as they are dragged towards the ship_

He shook himself. He was hallucinating this tugging, that was all. Setting his jaw, he turned around and marched off in the opposite direction of the resolute rope, ignoring it as it continued to pull at him, wrenching harder now that he was deliberately disobeying it . . .

No. He was not going to listen to this invisible string. A man had to draw the line somewhere, and for Sweeney, it was heeding things that did not exist. He was not going to comply with what was not real.

At that thought, he snorted. Real. What was _real_, anyway? By all technical terms, he was no more real than this force heaving at his abdomen. The people here – people still alive – they could see him no more than he could see this rope. Did that make _him_ any less real?

Utterly perplexed – and yet not – he began to walk in the direction the unseen power beckoned him.

xxx

She rubbed her knees. Her muscles and bones hadn't ached so much since she'd last come to Earth. But that was the price demons were expected to pay, she supposed.

_Keep moving, Lovett._

Straightening, she resumed her walking. Well, more like hobbling, really. The forward momentum was there though, and that was the important thing.

She had to stop on occasion, of course – for sleep and other necessary functions – but never for more than an hour or two at a time. She kept a careful eye on the clocks to make sure she never went over this.

A heavy feeling settled around her lower abdomen and pulled her away from her dim musings. She sighed. Time for another piss break.

Her brow furrowed. She had just gone less than an hour ago. And it didn't _feel_ like she needed to piss. Upon second thought, it felt more like –

Her breath hitched.

Like being pregnant. Or what she'd remembered pregnancy feeling like for those few, fleeting months before her miscarriages. Come to think of it, her middle felt so heavy it were as though all her failed pregnancies were suddenly being stacked within her stomach, each of the unborn babies squeezed into her, all together, weighing her down with such force that they intended for her never to move again.

Nellie shook her head. This was _insane_. She needed to shake herself of this delusion and get moving again. She needed to find Toby.

She dragged her feet across the pavement, a feat that was considerably more difficult now that – imaginary or not – she had at least five or six miscarried babes inside of her. But she continued on; it was the only thing she knew how to do.

xxx

It was her hair he caught sight of first: her thick, knotted, mahogany curls, corkscrewing and leaping from her skull with even more vigor than usual, almost as though they meant to imitate Medusa _(that's not too far off though, really . . .)_.

Her back was to him as she limped _(limped?)_ along the streets of London, and even from this distance, even without facing her, the weariness in her limbs was plain. Barely comprehending that the tugging around his middle was fading, he moved towards her, seizing her arm once he was close enough, forcing her to come to a stop.

She gasped at the contact and flailed for a moment before grabbing sight of him. A hand jumped to her collarbone as she fought to remaster her breathing. "Mr. Todd! Gave – gave me a fright! What d'you think you're doing here?"

Deep shadows were etched under her eyes. Her skin was gray, waxen. Her arm felt thin beneath his grip. She had not been on Earth as long as he'd lingered there _(how would you know? you haven't been counting the days_), and that was apparent: she looked much better than he had (he'd caught sight of his reflection in the back of a spoon shortly after returning to Is; suffice to say he had cringed away from it immediately). But that was not to say she looked well.

"Well," she said after a pause, touching her stomach in a puzzled manner, "if you don't mind, Mr. Todd, I'll be on my way now. I've got some matters to attend to here, and I don't intend to leave until they're done."

"You need to come back to Is."

"And I will as soon as I'm done here," she answered with utmost calm. "Could you please let go of my arm?"

Stubborn as a damn mule, she was, even in death. No . . . even a mule knew when to relent.

Sweeney's eyebrows drew low over his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

She stiffened. "'S'not your business."

"You're making it my business," he growled, shaking her arm. Her eyes widened, but not from fear. Regaining his composure, he looked down on her, ice replacing eyes. "You need to come back."

The baker's hand fell from her abdomen to her side, twisting bits of her robes between her fingers. "I can't . . . I will eventually, but I've got a – I need to – _Toby_."

The last word was a strained cry, and she winced at its sound, tucking her chin against her shoulder. "I need to find Toby." Now the words were burbling from her mouth; they could not come fast enough: "I need to find him but I can't, I don't know where he is – I've looked everywhere I could think and more, and I still haven't glimpsed him once."

His eyes had darkened, but her gaze was still averted from his, so she hadn't noticed. "I just need to know what happened to him . . ." She managed to lift her eyes and lock them upon his own. "Please . . . just go, Sweeney . . . I'm not going to leave until I've found him."

A man of few words, Sweeney Todd seldom spoke unless it was required of him. So he could not explain in any sort of reasonable terms what prompted him to part his lips and say, "I might know where he is."

Her eyebrows drew together in a straight line. "Wh – what . . .?"

Keeping his fingers secured around her arm, he began to walk, trusting her to keep pace – which she did, albeit in a somewhat-tottering manner.

He didn't know if the place he had in mind was where Tobias was or not. But given the conditions he had last seen the boy under . . . it was quite likely.

xxx

The sky was colored black by the time they reached his intended destination; he didn't know what time it had been when they'd begun trekking, but the sun had been much higher in the sky.

He darted his eyes at her as they approached the doors: standing as she did under the street lamp, her features were thrust into high relief, but apart from accentuating her pale complexion, the light revealed nothing else. Her mouth was neutral, her eyes inexpressive.

So Sweeney guided her the remaining distance from the outdoors to the inside of Bedlam.

Once there, he paused. As a barber, he had once made orders from here for his wigs, but he'd never actually ventured inside. The place was a fortress. He supposed it would have to be, lest its occupants get it in their heads to escape. Still – how was he supposed to find one boy in here?

It had escaped his attention, but she'd freed herself of his grasp, and was continuing to drift along deeper into the recesses of the asylum. He resumed his pace and quickly caught up to her. If she noticed him beside her, she didn't let on; her face was masked. With silent, matching gaits, they moved along the corridors.

The chatters and noises of the insane began to swell in volume as they neared the madhouse's dwellers. Now doors were set into the walls every so often. He peered into them. Many faces stared back at him with dead gazes. Hollowed, helpless, hopeless gazes. He couldn't help but to recoil from each of them. The gazes were too different from normalcy.

Too similar.

She halted beside one of the doors. He stopped too, but just as he did so, she moved through the door, leaving him no alternative but to follow.

The room was crowded, dirty, filled with men of varying ages and sizes. None of them looked as though they had bathed in ages, or even changed their clothes. Some howled, some chattered to themselves, some rocked back and forth; their sallow, sunken eyes were wide and bloodshot from more than sleep-deprivation.

His devil was easy to locate amongst them. She stood against the far wall, very close to the right corner of the room, eyes pinned to a huddled figure who sat with his legs tucked into the wall's nook. Even with the body's back to him, Sweeney knew who it was.

He walked towards them and stood beside her, staring at the same male as she. His theory had been right, but he felt no triumph from this fact: Tobias Ragg had gone mad.

At the time, he had not cared – had barely noticed, really – still shrouded by rage and betrayal and pain, so much pain . . . but yes, some part of him had noticed, down there in the bakehouse; some part of him had observed that something had gone off-kilter within the boy. It would have been impossible not to notice, really, the way Tobias'd been babbling and singing nursery rhymes to himself, even as he slit the barber's throat. . . .

For the moment though, Tobias was silent as the grave. His legs, tucked against his chest, were pushed into the corner of the room. His arms held his legs so tight it was as though he was afraid he would lose the limbs should he let them go. His eyes watched the wall in front of him as he rocked back and forth ever so slightly. The boy's form had never been large, but now he was barely anything more than papery skin covering limbs that prodded out like sticks from too-big clothes.

_("a hole in the world like a great black pit")_

Sweeney glanced at her. Her eyes were attached to Tobias; her skin had gone even paler than it had been under the street lamp, so pale it seemed nearly translucent, her cheekbones gray lumps beneath a white covering of snow.

She wasn't well. She needed to get back to Is.

"Come on," he rumbled, but she did not move.

He gripped her shoulder and attempted to prise her away. He might as well have been trying to move all of Bedlam with his bare hands, for she did not yield at all under his touch. _So unlike her._ He tried several more times to budge her, but it was fruitless. She remained stationary, immovable, riveted to Tobias, dark eyes wide and heavy and burdened.

His hands dropped. They stood, silent, staring at the boy curled into the corner. Though he did not look like much of a boy anymore . . . but he couldn't he be described as a man either. looked older yet younger; wiser yet dumber; lost to the real world yet alert to everything the others in the world did not and could not know: he looked mad.

Eventually he could not stand the tension – the silence – any longer. She was so quiet. Too quiet. Why was she so quiet? The bloody woman normally never stopped yammering, not even when seconds from her death

_("really _living it_")_

yet now she did not speak at all.

It must have been hours later before the slightest noise came from beside him – so shallow, so soft, no more than a breath – and at first he thought that he'd imagined it. But then a definite whisper: "I did this to him."

Sweeney took her by both shoulders and forced her to face him. He waited until her eyes crawled from Tobias to him before speaking. "There's nothing more you can do."

Her throat rippled in a swallow. She shook her head, tried to squirm away from him. "I – "

"There's nothing more you can do," he repeated, softly.

Her head waved side to side for another moment, body flailing, then the struggle left her. She became supple in his hands. One last glance in the direction of Tobias Ragg, and she nodded, though at whom he could not be sure. His hands tightening, he pulled her away, and she did not resist.

xxx

_I did that to him . . ._

Never had she thought – never had she envisioned – that her boy would have been reduced to that. How could she have? But it had happened and it was her fault. Her fault for choosing Sweeney over him, for locking him in the bakehouse, for deceiving him just as she had deceived everyone in London including him, her boy, the one person who truly would have done anything for her . . . and this was what she had done in return:

She had driven him insane.

Out of penitence and love, some part of her had wanted to stay by his side in Bedlam forever. She probably _would_ have stayed there forever – or at least until her soul disintegrated into nothing – had it not been for Sweeney's hands around her arms, her shoulders, and finally around her waist, prying her away. She hadn't resisted, though. He was right. There wasn't anything more she could do for Toby, good or ill. So, aware of Sweeney's touch as though from a great distance, she let him take her back to Is, leading her along the winding corridors.

Sweeney opened a door and ushered her inside; she barely glimpsed the gold letters bearing her name before she was through the doorway. Hands still planted on her shoulders, he moved her towards her bed, pushing her down upon it. She obeyed the familiar pressure of his fingertips without thought.

_I did that to him . . ._

The fingers coaxed her to lie down upon the mattress. She did so, lying on her side, squeezing her eyes shut, twisting into herself, balling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them as though intent on becoming so small she could just disappear.

A weight pressed down in the meager space beside her on the bed. She pried her eyes open to see Sweeney sitting on the edge of the cot, looking down on her. His hands left her shoulders settled on her calves. Wrapping his fingers around the limbs, he pulled them away from her chest and laid them flat on the mattress.

Thought was not within her any longer – was beyond her – she did not know rhyme or reason, sense, logic, reality . . . just that she was lost, and afraid, and aching all over as though with flu. Like a child, she grasped at the material of his robes and buried her face in the folds, before turning onto her other side, facing away from him, nose still deep in the fabric.

The black material was pulled away from her face – and the weight beside her lifted – then settled again – though the weight felt different than before, less concentrated in one area, more spread out. Almost as if he was stretched out beside her on the bed . . .

She did not dare turn over, did not dare face him. She did not want to confirm that she was hallucinating him again – she did not want to confirm that she was alone. And yet she could not help scooting just slightly backwards, hoping, yearning – her heart contracted as her back pushed against something solid – something beautifully warm – and real–

His arms enfolded her form, pressing her back to his chest. She clutched at the arms, holding them fast to her chest, needing something, anything, to cling to – but thank God it was him . . .

They stayed like that all night, she tucked against his chest, his arms circled around her body. She didn't try to reason out the why behind his actions. Why didn't matter right then. All that mattered was that she needed him, and he – however uncaring or indifferent – was there.

Sleeping with someone took an entirely different trust than sleeping beside them, she mused to herself vaguely sometime during the night's chords. Sleeping with someone – fornicating – fucking –– whatever the hell you wanted to call it – that wasn't hard. It didn't require love or trust. Oh, she had tried to convince herself many times back when they were alive that the barber having an interest in her body meant that he also had an interest in _her_ . . . but that had never been so, and she knew it.

Their sleeping with each other hadn't been a rare occurrence back then; unsurprising, really, when one considered that he'd not had a woman in fifteen years . . . and considering she'd been right there and more than willing. But they had rarely slept beside each other. After making love _(hardly the word for what_ we_ made)_, he had usually left (or made her leave, depending on whose quarters they were currently in), save for the one or two times he had accidentally dozed off.

Sex was one matter. Letting someone sleep next to you was completely another. It required an entirely different kind of touch . . . an entirely different kind of trust. Trusting someone while you were at your most vulnerable – a word neither of them were fond of, he to an even greater degree.

There was no trust between them now. One cannot trust their betrayer, and however she might try to get around it, they had both been betrayed by one another. Yet here they were. Lying together. Against each other.

She could have sworn that it wasn't just her mind recalling the sense and hallucinating it for her, that she actually, physically felt his arms shrouding her . . . felt his chest rise and fall ever so gently with each of his breaths . . . felt his warmth wrapped around her in a cocoon that cannot protect its moth from the world, but still tries to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Ohhai there, dear readers. So did y'all notice that you broke the review record last chapter?! Nineteen reviews! AND you broke 200 reviews total. In an attempt to express my gratitude, I'm doling out to all of you virtual brownies, balloons, and gin bottles (hey, c'mon, this IS a ST story . . . and I'm not about to make you meat pies xD).

So . . . what do you think? Can we get 20 reviews for this chapter? I think we can, I think we can . . . =)

Anonymous review replies:

_Noodlemantra_: Hello, new reader, and welcome to my crazy little world. ;] Thanks so much for checking out this story, and I hope you continue to enjoy it!

_Jillian the porcelain maid_: I will admit that I do have a bad tendency of introducing characters in one chapter and then never having them appear again. Barsid, however, is far too noisy for me to allow that to happen. xD Anywho, thanks so much for continuing to R-&-R!

_Guest_: Good day to you, new reader, and thanks for having a look at my story! I hope you continue to enjoy it!

_Violet_: Honey, I will continue this story come wind or rain (literally. Hurricane Sandy just passed through my area two days ago. That's how much I love you guys xD)! Anywho, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!

_Ann: _Here's an update! Really, dear readers, I'm not abandoning you! I apologize for sometimes taking a little while to update, but please have faith in me that I will not abandon this story. I pinky swear it. =) Thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_Macy_: My dear, I truly have no intention of abandoning this fic. I can't update as timely as I did over the summer, but that doesn't mean that updates will stop entirely. Anywho, thank you for leaving a review!


	20. Defeated Victories

_What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love. – __Fyodor Dostoevsky_

xxx

She returned to consciousness with the slow, creeping awareness of a mind still detangling itself from sleep. Her head and limbs felt sore, hefty. She did not open her eyes, just lay there, listening to her breathing as it pulled in and puffed out, in and out . . .

It was then that she comprehended that hers wasn't the only breathing in the room. Someone else was breathing as well . . . very close to her ear. Too, there was something around her that wasn't a blanket. It was heavier than a blanket – firmer – warmer . . .

She was suddenly afraid to breathe lest this gorgeous fantasy fade. He was never to be hers in reality, this she knew very well – but _godammit,_ she was entitled to at least have him in her dreams.

– _solid, so solid for a dream –_

And that was when it all came rushing back to her

_her child's body is emaciated and ravaged as he sits there balled into a shape of defeat, into a shape no child should ever know of_

She twisted and cried out; the things surrounding her – his arms, she realized – tightened before releasing her and drawing away – she flinched at the sudden cold – but the weight beside her did not leave. Nellie took a moment to recover herself, then rolled onto her other side. Beautiful obsidian splinters, mere inches away from her, met her gaze.

"Did I wake you?" she whispered.

"No."

"Oh." Even without her back pressed to his chest, without his arms wrapped around her, he was still dizzyingly close, though she now lacked his warmth.

They had not been this near one another in so long. Unfortunate that it had to be under such ghastly circumstances. Why was he still here, anyway? And still so . . . near? Almost as if he cared enough to see if she was okay . . . cared enough to try and comfort her, despite knowing that nothing he could do would heal the wounds . . .

_Don't start this again, Lovett. The man's never cared about you and never will._

"How long've you been awake?" she finally managed to ask, rubbing her cold hands together.

"I didn't sleep."

"All night?"

He nodded.

Reflexively, her eyes darted to the clock – expanding as they landed on the chord hand, which was just a bit beyond jade. "Oh God – shop's not even open yet – why didn't you wake me?" She made to spring up from the bed, but he put a hand on her shoulder and forced her back down.

"Your shop hasn't been open for many circles," Sweeney informed her. "One more won't make a difference."

"But – "

"_Rest." _Immobilized by his tone, Nellie's attempts to move from the bed ceased. He stood, the cot creaking and lifting as it was relieved of additional weight it was not used to bearing, and studied her with stygian eyes. "If you aren't here when I come back in two chords . . ."

He did not finish the threat – whether because he could not think of a threat, or because he preferred the ominous air his hanging sentence created, she couldn't be sure. Turning, he started towards the door.

Nellie, in a feeble attempt to bring heat back into her body, coiled into a fetal position. _Rest._ He had told her to rest. She didn't remember falling asleep last night, but it must have been a brief and uneasy one, judging from how she felt this morning. More like passing out than falling asleep, really . . . and it certainly hadn't been restful. Was such a thing as_ rest_ even possible anymore? How could it be, when her boy – so innocent, so beautiful, so beyond her help – would never know true rest again?

Pushing herself up into a sitting position, she clenched her hands into fists to stop their tremor, staring at them with such ferocity she might have meant to chop them off if they disobeyed. Her nails dug into the fleshy part of her palms.

She heard the door click shut. She glanced up, shocked to see Sweeney still inside her room, watching her – she'd thought he had already left.

"It isn't your fault."

His voice was quiet but firm, soothing but commanding, a riddle of contradictions, just like him: beautiful yet repellant, like a marble sculpture eroding in the rain; stubbornly unyielding yet perfectly lithe, changing as he needed to fit his circumstances; wise yet hopelessly naïve, attempting to sew the tatters of his family back together even when they were beyond repair . . .

Nellie's head careened side to side, swooping back and forth in loose, wide movements as though it was about to fly right off her neck. "'Course it's my fault."

"No." The inflexibility in his voice surprised her. "It's not your fault. The boy was never entirely in his right mind to begin with – "

"It_ is_ my fault!" she screamed, springing up from the bed. Gone was the hurt, gone was the anguish, the pain, the cold. Now there was only heat. Heat that was red, heat that was sticky, heat that was gushing and flowing in her veins like pure fever. Anger.

"It's my fault!" Nellie shouted again. She took a step towards him. Sweeney's eyes were wide. "It's completely my fault that he's lost his marbles! Who else's fault would it be? Certainly not _his_ – he never did nothing. I should've cared for him better 'stead of wasting all that time on you – at least he appreciated me . . . and locking him in the bakehouse – that was the final straw, that's what drove him to this madness!"

Sweeney's gaze, formerly round with shock, was now narrowed in cold fury. "I told you, it isn't your fault that he became – "

She swelled with rage. How she had become so furious so quickly – how she had jumped from despair to anger within mere heartbeats – she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure about much at that moment, least of all the reasons behind her emotions. What she _was _sure of was the heat that throbbed in each part of her body, of the hate burbling hotter than boiling water, nevermind that moments before she had been filled with chill and confusion and love –

"So according to you, every bloody thing under the sun is my fault _except_ for the thing I actually deserve blame for? My fault you're so unhappy, my fault you killed your wife – "

"_Don't – "_ he hissed, spine lengthening in ire.

" – but the only thing I deserve blame for, you say I shouldn't be responsible for? Toby's insanity _is_ 'cause of me – it's 'cause of how stupid I was to choose someone who didn't give a damn about me over the only person who _did_ – "

Sweeney's anger had also reached boiling point; rather than a rage-suppressed hiss, his next words were a shout that made no pretensions about disguising furor: "The boy killed me!"

That threw her for a moment – she had never found out how Sweeney had died, had never worked up the courage to ask about such a sore subject, too afraid he would sink even further into the past – but she recovered from this shock and yelled in return, "And _you _killed me!"

He slammed a fist upon the door. "You lied to me."

Nellie cried out and threw up her hands. "God inheaven, how many times've we got to talk about this? I lied 'cause I loved you. I know that never meant shit to you, but it meant everything to me. I just wanted for you to be happy – "

"And believing my wife to be dead was supposed to make me happy?" he spat back.

She hurled out a raucous laugh. "Oh, you can try and fool yourself with that line if you like, love – but _don't_ try and fool me. You were so trapped in your revenge you wouldn't've been able to care for her properly even if you had known she was alive."

"Lying and deluding is _your _forte, my dear," he snarled. "I speak honestly."

"Oh, bullshit – you like lying to yourself as much as me. So let's talk honest together for once, dear Mr. T: the woman you knew was long gone. All that you loved about her, her beauty and her sweet nature and her goodness – that'd vanished long ago. You really think any sort of relationship between the two of you would've worked when you returned?" She raked her eyes over his body with vicious enmity. "And you really think she would've loved you like _this_? You _still_ think while you search for her spirit circle after bloody circle that your beautiful, sweet little Lucy'll love the monster what murdered her?"

"Don't you dare – "Skin so bloodless it nearly matched the whites of his eyes, he moved a pace towards her – she thought for a moment he was going to attack her – but instead one of his fists smashed into her full-length mirror. The glass split upon impact, forming a spider web of cracks around the cavity made by his hand. Blood covered his knuckles when he removed them from the mirror's surface. "Don't you _dare_ – "

"Don't dare what? Tell the fucking truth for once? Because that's what this is, my love – " the pet name was spat like poison " – it's_ truth_. Lucy wasn't who you wanted and remembered her to be any longer – and even the woman you once knew wasn't as golden and perfect as you always made her out to be" – his eyes flashed like fire – "always was a stupid and selfish thing – what sort ofgolden perfection tries to kill themselves when they've still got a child to look after, hmm?"

What little self-control Sweeney still clung to broke: he flung himself at her, only just managing to grasp the nightstand by her bed rather than her throat. _"GET OUT!" _ he roared.

She stayed where she was. "This is _my_ room." What did he expect her to do – flee from him in fear? He should know her better than that by now.

_He cannot scare her. He tries – certainly, he tries – not often, only when very upset, but enough that it is definitely not an irregularity. He snarls venomous words and warnings at her, sometimes accompanying them with a kiss on her neck from his blade . . . but the words never come true, and the blade never kisses too far._

_He can threaten and hold a razor to her skin as many times as he likes. She does not fear that he will follow through with what he says. She does not believe the empty words. She is not afraid of him. _

_She knows he will never hurt her. _

Torso billowing with each heavy inhale, Sweeney only stared at her, hands cemented so firmly around the edges of her nightstand his fingers had turned stark white. She held her ground and glowered right back. Then all at once his hands unclamped from the bed table – the blood rushed back into them – and he left the room.

Even with him gone, her anger had yet to abate. She put a hand against her collarbone as she realized that she was breathing hard, pulse vibrating beneath her fingertips. Snarling, she began to pace, whirling back and forth each time she neared hitting the wall. The room was so small her feet ended up charting small circles rather than a straight line, much like a cyclone.

Her pacing paused for a moment as she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and she glowered into the broken surface. There was no way around it – she looked awful: blearied eyes, flushed face, tousled hair half-in and half-out of an up-do, translucently gray skin. Her dreadful appearance was not helped by the motif of cracks running every which way from the fist-shaped gorge in the reflection, nor by the flecks of blood surrounding it.

Striding and snarling were suddenly not enough, not nearly enough for all the fireworks crackling and exploding in her veins. Her hands lunged out, grabbed the edges of her mirror, and heaved it across the room. It hit the opposite wall in a glorious display of discordant music chords and flying glass; silver shards rained down on the floor as the gold-embellished frame fell over sideways, empty save for several stubborn pieces of reflector.

His blood wiped off the glass fragments as they fell, smearing on her wall and floor.

She stared at the destruction. A numb feeling stole over her. Yet another broken mirror, no different than the one propped against the wall in his barber shop. She'd been so happy when she first bought that mirror and put it in her room. She expected to be upset at seeing it in ruins. But she wasn't; even when he had first punched its surface, she hadn't been bothered by its shattering. As though she had always known the glass would break.

_Perhaps demons just aren't meant to own undamaged mirrors._

Her body began to rock with convulsions. Her knees bowed and smacked the floor. The heat was long gone, and so, too, was the numbness.

She keeled over, calves to ground, face to knees, almost as if in prayer, and sobbed like she had not done since . . . since she could not remember when. Certainly, she cried now and then, but to slouch over and bawl was not a habit of hers; she had made herself tougher than that.

Today, she let the tears fall.

There was no point. There was no point to any of this. No point in trying to make a life out of what was not life. No point in trying to alter what could not be changed. No point in trying to spin a reality out of what could only ever be dreams.

She had built a life for herself on beliefs and dreams: always able to believe that someday life would be better, that someday Benjamin Barker would come home, that someday she'd make a real family for herself . . . and of course the sea . . . by the sea with her boy and her love . . .

Some part of her – one that she forced deep down during the dark, lonely hours of the morning – had known it would never happen. But if she had allowed herself to entertain those far-buried thoughts for too long – if she'd begun to believe them – then what would she have? Nothing. She would have had nothing. And so she'd carried on believing, dreaming . . .

Never had she believed or dreamed everything would result in this.

And what was the use of continuing to believe or dream or even _try_? Death allowed room for none of them.

_So what's this, then?_ _You're giving up? You're going to let yourself be defeated?_

No. She was not letting herself be defeated. She had been defeated from the moment she'd died; she had just not realized it until now. Her dreams were dashed; the boy who could have been hers was mad; the man she loved loathed her; and there would not be a chance for change or a brighter tomorrow because the afterlife didn't even_ have_ actualtomorrows.

The very concepts that had given her the will to live – believing, dreaming, hoping, loving – had been her downfall. And since she was no longer living, there wasn't any point continuing on with them.

She rubbed the tears on her cheeks away with her fingertips. It didn't do any good to cry anymore . . . not now that everything – finally – was beginning to make sense.

This was not defeat. This was accepting defeat.

Expression blank with affirmation, she drew herself to her feet, wiped at the last of her tears, and melted into the ground.

xxx

Sweeney Todd could not focus.

It was currently 'night' – persimmon, to be precise. Night was usually when he was at his most productive, those beautiful chords when no one but he was awake (or so it felt like). It were not as though his customers distracted him from his artwork during business hours, because they usually didn't. Work just became easier when he was alone; thought flowed clearer when no one but he was present.

Tonight was an exception. His hands could not sculpt, his legs could not sit, his mind kept straying

_locks of hair that shine gold like the sun_

and yet neither could his hands stay still, nor his legs bear to walk, nor his mind even narrow in on one single thought or

_curls the color of maroon rust_

feeling; everything was so jumbled; he could not focus nor was he content to pace across the room without aim. The old, familiar desire for pain, for blood – for _red_ – began to rise. He had not lusted after blood in so long that for a moment he felt almost nostalgic. He wanted to cut something. He wanted to make someone bleed. He wanted to create a wound.

_Why? Haven't you realized by now that it won't get rid of yours?_

He snatched at the object nearest to him – one of his fettling knives – and hurled her across the room, where she smacked against the wall. In the instant after, he regretted this

_why do you always hurt the things most precious to you?_

and hurried over to the far wall to cradle the blade in his hand. The dried flecks of blood from her mirror sat on his knuckles and contrasted starkly with the silver of the knife – but he did not find it beautiful, the gleaming silver and the crusted crimson. Not entirely with his conscious approval, his feet resumed their habitual pacing, and soon he was cutting across the floor to his metronome, step, step, step, step, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth

_maroon rust all over his hands_

back and forth.

He gritted his teeth. He had done next to nothing for nearly the entire circle. He had left her room at around jade

– _don't –_

and had stayed in his shop ever since, save for once when he had gone to the pub next door to him for a spot of dinner and a tall glass of gin. The chords in-between and after that had crawled by. Customers had drifted in and out of his shop as he made himself go on as normal.

How could she? How _dare_ she? He had helped her – willingly helped her – and whether or not he did it for her sake or the alcohol's wasn't the point; he had done it nonetheless.

– _oh, so you're going to blame your actions last night on your desire for _alcohol _–_

– _don't don't – _

He had willingly led her to the boy, and she repaid him by screaming at him, screaming the ever-familiar excuses, and lies, and blasphemy about Lucy. . . . He winced as her words swelled in a tidal wave over him again

_wasn't as golden and perfect as you made her out to be_

_you really think she would've loved you like this_

_what sort of perfection tries to kill themselves when they still have a child to look after_

_that's what this is, my love – it's _truth

_stupid and selfish thing_

and crashed into every particle of his skin. She had no right – no fucking right – to speak such calumnies about his wife –

_Why? You've thought those exact same things._

He barely restrained himself from throwing the fettling knife again. Yes, he had wondered before how Lucy could have tried to kill herself when Johanna was still a baby . . . how she could have had such little will to live . . . how she could have had such little faith in his return, even after he had sworn to her that he would be back as soon as he could . . .

But he had never allowed such thoughts to linger. What did he know, after all, about what she had gone through? What did he know of the injustices and pain she'd suffered? He knew of immeasurable ache, certainly, but his was incomparable to hers . . . to be violated, to be left alone with nothing and no one to depend on – he knew nothing of what that was like. He had no right to judge her. And _she _certainly had no right either. She hardly had a right to meddle in his business as much as she did, nevermind speak such terrible, rage-incurring, untruthful –

This time he was powerless against his independent-minded hand lifting and spearing the fettling knife at the wall. The sharp point grazed the wall in a long scratch

_long scratches along his back with her nails_

before dropping to the ground. He rushed forward and scooped her into his hands, able to offer nothing more than an apology.

He shouldn't let the she-devil get under his skin. No, not just shouldn't. He couldn't. Goddammit, he _wouldn't_, not anymore. It was time to keep her out of his existence – for good this time – no matter where she did or didn't go, no matter who did or didn't ask him to look for her, no matter how much – gin she possessed. He was through with her; he should have been through with her a long time ago. Starting now, he would be.

He was holding the knife's blade so tight in his fist he had, without realizing, cut his palm. Frowning, he drifted over to where he kept the dishtowels he used for wiping up excess clay, rinsed one off, and then wrapped it around his hand, promptly decorating the cloth with his blood. Strolling back over to his work table, he sat. He felt a bit calmer now that he was equipped with a plan, this brilliant plan – the plan to remove himself from Eleanor Lovett's existence.

No longer would he tolerate her. No longer would he be plagued by her endless babble, her taunting smirk, her smoky scent, her spindly hands, her devilish tricks, her dark eyes. No longer would he allow her to so much as stray around the edges of his existence. Yes, starting now

_maroon rust all over his bed_

the past would haunt him no longer.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **You guys. You left TWENTY-TWO REVIEWS on the last chapter. I am floored. I never imagined my li'l baby would receive so much love. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm currently swamped by that strange thing that is called real life and wasn't planning on updating this fic for another week or two, but when I realized that you guys had broken the review record, I thought I should give you all a reward. Call it a Thanksgiving treat, if you're American.

I realize that I am incredibly behind in my review replies. I will catch up sooneventuallyish. My life is currently a whirl of final exams, holidays, etc, but I pinky swear that all reviews will be answered.

That said, reviews are and forever shall be love.


	21. And We Would Fall

_Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to. – Sophocles_

xxx

The architects of Fogg's Asylum must have originally intended for the place to be a prison, she contemplated as she drifted along the corridors. The walls were so thick it would have taken five boulders to smash through them. Small, cold-barred windows were set into every door, allowing the inmates only a striped view of the world they could no longer be a part of. And every corner of it was dimly lit, world-weary, mold growing from the cracks. Had she still been able to feel anything on Earth, she knew she would be shivering in the dank air.

She traversed along the hall, veering to the right as she came to the room she was looking for, and slipped through the wall. The room – as well as its occupants – looked just as they had last time she'd been here _(whenever that was)_. Each sallow, starved face chewed at her heart, but she could not afford to spare them sympathy. Not when she had attention only for one.

But –

Where was he?

Her heart collapsed in on itself as her gaze swept the room. Toby was not here. There were many other males in the room, some around his age – but not him. She shook her head, eyes still darting around. She must not be seeing him, that was all. There were an awful lot of people in here, after all, and it would be easy to overlook one on first glance.

_But not him. Not my boy._

Shunning those thoughts, she moved further into the room, leaning down to peer into the face of a man balled up in the far left corner. The bloodshot eyes and ashen skin were familiar, but she knew instantly that it was not Toby. She turned her gaze to a boy rocking and singing the phrase _"pretty bird pretty bird" _again and again, but neither was he the person she was looking for.

Again and again she bent over to scour faces of madness and pain. Her panic rose with every empty glance. He had to be here. This was not the first time she had been to see him recently. She had just been here, had just seen him. He was here. He had to be.

She had not returned to Is since her argument with Sweeney, since her breakdown – since her epiphany. As she had realized, there was no point in continuing to go on as before. She now spent most of her time with Toby. Weeks, months, a year . . . she had completely lost track of how long it'd been. Toby didn't know she was there, of course, but that wasn't what mattered. What did matter was that she was there. Too late, yes . . . but she was there, and she was able to sit and watch him, be with him.

She didn't spend all of her time there. Nellie Lovett was not about to erode away into nothing. Just because she'd been defeated did not mean she should give up completely. She didn't have much pride anymore, but she'd be damned _(you mean you aren't already?) _if she was going to stoop to Lucy Barker's level. So, occasionally, she would drift back to the netherlands and spend a few circles there, wandering and trying not to think. She figured that, by taking a break from Earth every few days, she would keep herself from that whole decaying-and-later-disappearing business.

" – wouldn't stop flailing – finally thought we might be getting somewhere with him – "

" – never going to get anywhere with this one – "

_Slam._

Nellie jumped and whirled around as the door to the cell banged open. Two guards and an inmate wrapped in a straightjacket stood framed in the doorway for a moment, before the guards threw the patient to the ground, face-first, and whipped the door shut again. The inmate shifted for a moment on the ground as though considering standing – a baby bird about to leave the nest – but then stilled, legs awry, face pressed against the floor.

She flew towards him and knelt by his side, reaching out to cradle his head, stroke his hair, touch his face. Her fingers passed through his skull as though she were no more than water. No . . . less than water. He could still feel water.

This happened every single time she tried to touch Toby, and she knew that this was how it would always be. Her hands, however, had yet to learn.

"Didn't wanna put a straightjacket on him," one of the guards said from outside the door. "But we didn't have no choice."

"Aw, you going soft?"

"No . . . no, not soft. It's just that that one's not been violent in a while. We hadn't needed to do that to him in at least a year. Dunno what caused the setback."

"What causes people to go insane?" the other guard returned sarcastically. "What causes God to make so much pain and shit in this world? These things just don't have answers, Ralph. And the sooner you accept that, the happier you'll be."

"I suppose you're right . . ."

The guards' voices grew dimmer as they moved away from the cell and down the corridor. Toby remained, broken and splayed, upon the floor. Swallowing, she drew her unfeeling fingers through his hair and then along his back, willing him to get up. Eventually – in no part thanks to her – he stirred, rolling onto his left shoulder, which he used along with his legs to push himself into a sitting position.

His eyes were glassy, lips sewn together – that meant he was currently in what she had come to refer to as his 'awake sleeping state' . . . a state where, even if he were to be hit over the head with a rolling pin, he would not notice. This was only one of his many 'states,' but it was the one that scared her the most, even more so than 'half-rhyming mode' or 'screaming to wake the dead state' or 'bouncing and singing state.' It scared her because it reminded her too much of Sweeney.

They sat like that for some time, the insane boy and the dead woman, both with bodies inert and gazes far away, kneeling on the ground.

How had she gotten here? Gotten to such a point of disinterest in existing? Of not caring about anything save the boy who was far beyond her reach? Yes, she had been defeated long ago . . . _that_ was obvious . . . _that_ there was no escaping any longer. Even so, she was going back on everything she'd said she would never do. However she framed it, however well she knew there were no other options, she was still giving up. No longer could she hold her head high and say that defeat was a term that did not apply to her. No longer could she preach words of moving on, either. Not that she had plans to preach – nevermind speak – to _him_ ever again.

_Sweeney . . ._

She hated him. She loathed him.

(She loved him.)

But the hate was fueled by anger and thus overrode the love. She was still infuriated with him from their argument, for how he had treated her, for how unwilling he was to see any perspective but his own . . .

Mostly, though, she was infuriated with herself. For loving him. For allowing him to dictate her entire life despite the fact that he didn't care one whit about her. For putting him before Toby. For letting her foolish heart care about a selfish, cruel bastard so much that she would destroy an innocent boy in a ridiculous attempt to save a man already broken beyond repair.

"Doctor Foster," Toby whispered, jarring her from her thoughts. Pained, she looked at him. "Doctor Foster went to Gloucester in a shower of rain – no, blood. Blood rain. Rain of blood. Red red red."

He pressed his bound arms against his chest and began to seesaw back and forth. The shift from 'awake sleeping' to 'half-rhyming' had been made.

"Red sky at night, sailor's delight – no, no, the sailor can't come in here . . . three times is the secret, y'see . . ."

And Nellie wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him to her as he continued to babble and rock, and neither of them could feel the other.

xxx

"_Did you forget that today's your birthday, love?"_

_No. He just doesn't want to remember._

"_Well. Bought you something, anyway."_

_He deliberately didn't remind her so she wouldn't buy him something. Birthdays reek too much of Benjamin Barker. Of happiness._

_She presses her gift into his hands. He remains at the window, not looking at her. She sighs as though expecting more (though he doesn't know why she _would_ expect more). Then she steps forward, brushes her lips against his cheek, and leaves._

_He throws out the present without opening it, but cannot as easily throw away the kiss._

He jerked away from the memory. When would his subconscious learn to obey him? He was not letting Eleanor Lovett into any part of his existence anymore. It did not matter if she was physically present or not; he was not to think on her in any way, for any period of time. His subconscious, however, had yet to receive this notice. Memories, ruminations, sounds, sights, tastes – all circled through his mind like vicious wolves. And words from their argument – from the last time they had seen each other – still resonated in his ears with persistence . . .

"_Lucy wasn't who you wanted and remembered her to be any longer – and even the woman you once knew wasn't as golden and perfect as you always made her out to be."_

Determined to shake himself from all thoughts related to the pie maker, Sweeney marched over to stand beside the desk of one of his students; it was currently art class time.

"How are you doing?" he barked.

The pupil – a dark-haired boy of perhaps seven years – jolted and looked up at him through wide eyes. "I – uh – fine, sir."

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the child was startled. It wasn't often that he went out of his way to interact with his students. Still, there was no reason for the boy to look _scared_.

"Good," Sweeney muttered, and stalked over to the next desk, which happened to be Eloise Gardner's. She looked up at him, gaze shrouded in distress, but then turned her attention back to her work. His heart – or whatever twitching remains of it resided in his chest – twisted.

"Mr. Todd!"

He closed his eyes, beckoning patience, then opened them and moved towards the voice calling him.

"Mr. _Toooodd_?"

Jaw already clenched, he stalked towards her. The tart – _Griselda_, she wanted him to call her, because _that was her name_ – smiled at him, twirling her gray tresses between her fingers.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Todd – I just _don't_ understand what you did to create that pot. Mine looks absolutely nothing like it!"

_Understandable, considering you seem to be trying to sculpt your hair rather than your clay._

She dimpled. "Could you be a dear and help a poor"

_("thing")_

"woman out?"

Without comment, he bent over and crafted a crude pinch pot in under ten seconds. Despite its uncouth appearance, she fawned and praised the creation like it was heaven itself. Sweeney grunted a reply and made to leave, but she managed to latch onto his sleeve before he could make his escape.

_She tugs at his sleeve. His attention, which had been narrowed upon the boy spouting off nonsense about some 'miracle elixir,' shifts to her. There is an earnest, almost wicked gleam in her eyes that he's never seen before._

"_I've got an idea," she whispers._

"_For?" he prompts in a mild undertone._

_The left corner of her mouth lifts in a decidedly unlady-like smirk. "For how to completely destroy Pirelli and get you a good reputation, of course." She leans closer to him and murmurs the details of her scheme. _

_A smile lights his face. _

"_Mrs. Lovett – you're brilliant," he confides. She throws him a wink and he raises his voice to call out, "Pardon me, ma'am, what's that awful stench?"_

_Not missing a beat, she too increases her volume and cries in mock puzzlement, "Are we standing near an open"_

"Mr. Todd," Griselda said, looking him dead in the eyes and allowing only a furtive curve of her mouth, "I'd like to speak with you after class, if you don't mind."

He arched an eyebrow. "Regarding . . .?"

She let go of his sleeve and leaned back in her chair as her hands settled against the pinch pot on her desk. "You shall find out in two chords."

Seething, he marched to the other side of the room. _Great. _She had never been so brazen or straight-forward with him before. So his apathy towards her persistent coy looks and suggestive words had done nothing to shift her attention towards a different man. It had only driven her to try another tactic to gain his interest. As if she really thought she could gain his interest. As if he hadn't seen every trick in existence to gain his interest already employed by

_she smirks as she notices his eyes, fixed of their own will, on her half-exposed breasts_

– _stop stop you said you would stop you said you wouldn't let her interfere in your existence anymore –_

"Do you need any help?" Sweeney questioned the pimpled young man several seats away from the elderly wench, determined to pull himself away from all thoughts related to – _don't_ – from all thoughts _period_.

He glanced at the clay on the young man's desk – and could not stop his eyes from widening. Gone was the misshapen hunk that had been sitting on the table last time Sweeney had looked over. In its place was a pinch pot. An actual pinch pot. Granted, a pinch pot was – in the grand scheme of pottery – not a difficult thing to create. That was why he had chosen such a piece for today's lesson. But compared to what his students usually produced . . .

The young man looked just as surprised as Sweeney felt. His hands were locked together in his lap, his gaze fixed on the pot. "I – I'm sorry – " Sweeney's brow furrowed " – I know it's terrible, I just . . ."

The youth was clearly misinterpreting his teacher's silence. Sweeney cleared his throat. "It's – it's very good."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "Uh – really?"

"Yes," said Sweeney firmly. The other male's mouth shifted in confusion, then it turned upward.

The happiness in the room, however, was short-lived, as Sweeney's name was barked from several chairs over. He repressed a sigh as he moved towards the soul who demanded his attention. Doreen Rowbottom, an aunt of his whom he'd never liked, had taken to coming to his art classes. She had not yet recognized her deceased nephew amidst his changed appearance – his first blessing in what felt like an eternity.

"Mr. Todd," she declared once he stood beside her, "this is ridiculous."

It was unfortunate that patience was a virtue; were it a vice, he might have had more of it at his disposal.

"What is?" he queried as levelly as he could.

"This pinch pot business," said Doreen. "It's a ridiculous task. Anyone can take a bit of clay between their fingers and_ pinch_ it."

Sweeney peered at her clay lump. "Then why does yours not resemble anything remotely related to a pot?"

Her cheeks flushed, but her voice did not waver as she responded, "Because I stopped making mine, that's why. There are plenty of better ways for me to spend my time rather than pinching clay."

His fingers tingled, his muscles constricted

_she massages her fingers over his tense body in a quick and precise manner as though his flesh is no different than the dough she shapes each day_

but he knew he must keep his head.

"Then go spend your time with those better ways," he said.

Doreen turned an indignant red and straightened herself. "I only think," she said with venom, "that it would be more useful to create pieces along the lines of what we were previously making. Pieces that one can actually take pride in looking at. Pieces that require skill."

"You must learn the basics of a craft before you can possess any skill." Sweeney inclined his head towards her in a bow. "Now if you'll excuse me. I must check on my other pupils."

He moved down the aisle to glance at the other pots, expecting Doreen to leave. But, though visibly affronted, she stayed in the room. To think that his father had always encouraged him to be as kind as possible to Doreen, because she had been so traumatized in her youth by accidentally giving her ailing brother too much laudanum and killing him. She hadn't been this way before then, his father had always reassured him. She had been such a sweet-tempered girl prior to the accident, not filled with any of the loathsome and cruel bones that had later grown in her body.

Sweeney rolled his eyes: his father had been a fool. Being kind had never and would never do Doreen any good; all humans had loathsome and cruel bones; hers had taken a few years to grow, but once the skeleton was solid beneath her skin, not tenderness nor harshness could alter or break them.

"_What sort of golden perfection tries to kill themselves when they've still got a child to look after, hmm?"_

Try as he did to focus, the concept continued to allude him. This was not helped by the way a man towards the far right of the classroom kept throwing his eyes towards Sweeney. At first, Sweeney thought the man was attempting to be covert, and so met the probing gaze with his own glare. The man did not break eye contact even then.

Already unnerved by other matters that he was _not_ thinking about, Sweeney found himself the first to glance away, running his thumb up and down along the flat side of his fettling knife like a fiery bow across a violin. What did that fellow want? Why was he staring at him in such a way? Come to think of it, the man did look vaguely familiar to Sweeney. He cast his gaze towards the stranger – lanky frame, dusty locks framing an oval face, dark eyes –

_her dark eyes see everything, they even penetrate his black façade_

" – _Toby's insanity _is_ 'cause of me – it's 'cause how stupid I was to choose someone who didn't give a damn about me over the only person who _did_ – "_

_No. Focus._

He passed the remaining time moving about the room as usual. By the class's end, several more of his students had achieved a sculpture that actually passed for a pinch pot. He promised to fire each of them in the kiln; his students' previous projects had not made it that far, as they were usually ashamed of them. These ones, however, deserved to be immortalized. He placed each of them in the kiln as the students filed out of the room.

Eloise cut a silent, steady path towards the door, but he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. Understanding him without the use of words, Eloise nodded and walked over to stand beside his desk. He waited until the rest of the students had left before walking towards her.

"Eloise . . . I tried."

He had not told the girl the entire truth after returning from Earth. He had told her that he'd wandered Earth trying to find the baker, but he had not told Eloise that he had found her there. He had not told Eloise that he'd brought the she-devil back to Is. And he most certainly had not told her what had happened that night, or the next morning.

It seemed that, after their quarrel, Eleanor had fled Is yet again, for her shop had not opened since, and no one had seen her wandering or shopping about. Sweeney did not know nor care where she had gone. The further away she was, the better. He did, however, care about how much the demon's disappearance affected Eloise.

"_Don't dare what? Tell the fucking truth for once? Because that's what this is, my love – it's _truth_."_

"I know you tried," said Eloise with blank acceptance. "I know you tried to find Mrs. Lovett. You told me you tried, and I believe you. It's been many circles since she's been on Is now, and it seems unlikely she'll come back now. Believing that you tried to find her doesn't change how I feel now that she's gone."

Sweeney did not know what to say. Eloise stepped closer and hugged him; she only just came past his navel.

"I miss her too," Eloise murmured into his torso, perhaps mistaking his pained silence as being directed towards Eleanor Lovett rather than herself. He reached out a tentative hand and placed it against her shoulder. When she did not pull away, he rested his other hand between her shoulder blades and closed his eyes.

"_The woman you knew was long gone, Mr. Todd."_

His jaw clenched. Could he never have a moment's respite?

_Respite? Have you forgotten, Todd? There is no respite here. This is hell in every sense of the word but for name. Respite does not exist._

"Thank you for the art class, Mr. Todd. I'll see you in two circles for the next one." Eloise pulled away and moved towards the wall, waving over her shoulder with drained cheer.

"Mr. Todd?"

He closed his eyes. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Class was over – that meant _Griselda_ wanted to talk to him. Steeling himself for anything, he turned around. Sure enough, there she was, standing at an uncomfortably familiar distance.

Her lips coiled in a smile of nervous anticipation. "You'll have to excuse my unladylike behavior, Mr. Todd. I am not normally this direct. But . . ." She took a step forward. "I want to be honest with you."

Not liking any direction this conversation could potentially be traveling, Sweeney interjected, "I must be on my way – "

"I'll get to the point." The woman moved forward another step. "I like you, Mr. Todd. I suppose you haven't noticed" – he barely held back his snort – "but I do. And I would like to know you better. It can be very lonely – a woman alone, you know . . . but when a man as charming as yourself – "

Sweeney cut her off: "I have a wife."

Well, it wasn't a lie. He _did _have a wife. Her not being on Is didn't make a difference in that respect; they were still married, and even if he _had _been interested in this woman, he was not going to break the vow he had made to Lucy.

– _not like you haven't already broken it –_

_clothes can't be discarded fast enough_

– _stop it stop it that was different you didn't know you couldn't have known that she was still alive –_

From the look on her face, he might have slapped her. "You – you have a – oh – I'm – I'm so sorry, Mr. Todd, I did not know – "

"It's alright," said Sweeney. "Now you do know." He wished she would simply leave already. He wished she had not flooded open thoughts and memories he no longer wanted to have and

_her body can't be close enough_

he wished most of all that he could be left in peace for goddamn once.

"I . . . yes . . . I'm so sorry, Mr. Todd. I just assumed, since I didn't see a ring on your finger – "

"I have not purchased one since coming to Is. I didn't feel the need."

The woman nodded quickly, a deep blush settling into her complexion. "Yes, well – I'll see you in two circles, Mr. Todd." She made a hasty retreat for the door.

Sweeney resumed placing the pinch pots in the kiln. His mind threatened to spin in a million directions

_her skin and lips and hands are everywhere on him like an insatiable fire long deprived of wood to burn_

but he would not allow it to. Once done filling the kiln, he decided to go to his shop and work on his pottery a bit before heading to the _Running Sage Tavern_ for dinner. Using his hands to create, though not always able to distract him, usually did a better job of it than food.

He stepped through the wall and into his shop, settling himself at his crafting table after grabbing a fresh mound of clay. He deliberated what to make. Lately he'd taken to sculpting candle holders, but he

_growls into her skin_

found that he was in the mood for something a bit different. Perhaps a sculpture of

_her teeth sinking into his collar bone_

an animal; he'd not done that in a while. An animal with power. A tiger, perhaps, or a stallion. Or

_russet tresses waterfall over him_

a wall carving with intricate designs that would allow him to fully utilize his beloved fettling knives.

His fingers pushed into the clay slab, working it soft as he considered the possibilities. There were too many possibilities, that was the problem. Sculpture animals and wall carvings did not even begin to cover all of the potential objects he could create

_grabbing gasping pushing pulling kissing scratching biting having taking needing_

He released a cry and crumpled in his seat, burying his head in his hands. Damn Eleanor Lynnette Lovett. Damn her for never freeing him of her clutches. Damn her for being everywhere. Damn her.

_He starts to get up from her bed, but she grabs his forearm. She sits up and looks at him. Covered in darkness and drying sweat, curls of maroon rust springing around her face and down her back without restraint, half-tangled in sheets, she looks to be a porcelain doll escaped from its dusty, chastise shelf. _

_There is nothing about this woman that resembles a doll, of course; she is far from fragile, and God knows there's nothing about her that's chastise. But framed in this moment, she looks vulnerable. Breakable. _

"_Why don't you stay the night for once, love?" she asks. "Sleep down here instead?"_

"_I don't sleep," he mutters. She already knows he doesn't sleep. She also knows why he doesn't ever stay the night. So he doesn't know why she has to question him about it. Can't she ever just accept things as they are?_

_Her fingers softly knead the muscles in his arm. "Then how about just stay here and rest?"_

"_Eleanor," he warns, withdrawing the limb._

_She catches him again before he can go, twining their fingers together. There is too much light in her dark eyes, too much love; he looks away._

"_You don't have to sleep. Just . . . just lie down. Close your eyes."_

_But he can't. To close your eyes is to trust someone not to hurt you._

_He knows people always hurt each other._

_Her hand walks up his arm to rest against his back. Her face presses into the nook between his neck and shoulder, lips shifting against his skin as she murmurs, "Even if your eyes're closed, I won't ever hurt you."_

_He knows this too. It scares him._

It was only now that he also knew what utter shit those thoughts had been. That bitch was on her side and her side alone, everyone else be damned.

He pushed himself to his feet, looking around the room for something – anything – to occupy himself with. Art supplies and empty walls

_and her eyes_

stared back at him. Breathing heavily with anger, he moved towards his till. It was about time to calculate his revenues, anyway. Busywork might help his thoughts from straying. He sat down by the till, opened it, and proceeded to tally the amount inside. His mind kept straying from the numbers, which made the process of counting his earnings far more difficult, irksome, and time-consuming than such a task normally was. He kept at it until morning arrived.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Happy Christmas, my dear readers. I humbly offer a new chapter as my gift to you all, whatever faith you might be. Having first seen Sweeney Todd five years ago on Christmas Day (there isn't much else to do on Christmas when you're a Jew save going to the movies), I was absolutely determined to get a new chapter posted today to commemorate my five year anniversary of being sucked into this fandom. Oh, good gosh, now I am getting all old and sentimental. xD

Anyway, I do hope you enjoy my present to you, and would of course love a present in return in the form of a review . . . ;] I continue to be absolutely floored by how many reviews my li'l baby is receiving, so let's do our best to keep the pace up!

Anonymous review replies for chapter twenty:

_paigelindsey97_: Thank you very much, m'dear! An update is shortcoming, I pinky swear it!

_Lily_: Oh, I definitely agree. I can't have any respect for a mother who would abandon her child without a second thought. As to whether Sweeney will realize his own stupidity . . . does that sound much like Sweeney to you? xD Haha. Anyway, thanks very much for R-&-R-ing!

_Noodlemantra_: Thank you, darling! I'm glad that you enjoyed this chapter. I'm afraid I am not familiar with "Iris," however. Is this another musical?

_Ghost_: I keep thinking you can't flatter me anymore, and then you somehow manage to succeed in doing just that. Perfect is probably the last word I'd ever use to describe myself, but, hey, I'll take it! I just hope I can continue to -be- perfect now that I've reached perfection. xD Anyway, thank you so much, love!

Anonymous review replies for chapter nineteen:

_PirateNinjaCJS_: You see? I promised you that this story is a love story, however slow or backwards Nellie and Sweeney might often be. xD Anyway, glad you enjoyed the romance (or hints of it, at least), and thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_Ghost_: Why, thank you, m'dear!

_Noodlemantra_: I'm glad to hear that you're liking the fic so much! Thank you for R-&-R-ing!

_Guest_: Oh, my. Thank you! I hope that I shall NEVER cease to amaze you, in that case. I do so dread becoming boring one day. xD Anyway, thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_Lily_: Oh, goodness, no, my romances never take five seconds. I am much more a fan of the long (sometimes, I admit, too long xD) love story. Love doesn't happen in a day, whatever the Harlequin novels (bless them!) might depict. Anyway, thank you so much for R-&-R-ing, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

_Kayla_: Oh no! I am very sorry that I made you cry, m'dear. But I have to confess that I am pleased this chapter brought so much emotion out of you! Thanks for leaving a review, and I hope you enjoy the remaining chapters!


	22. The Life I Covet

_Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym. – Stephen King_

xxx

Smooth sand warmed her feet. Rays of sun kissed her cheeks. A soft breeze blew against her, lifting her corkscrewing hair and wafting the smell of salt water up her nose. She smiled and closed her eyes, laying down on her back.

_By the sea at last . . ._

As logic caught up to this thought, Nellie Lovett gasped and shot back into a standing position. This wasn't the sea. It couldn't be.

But sand was still between her toes, sun was still shining on her face, winds were still brushing against her, and – for a moment she couldn't breathe – there on the horizon was the water . . .

She shook herself. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be happening. _Just calm down and think things through, Nellie._ She couldn't remember how she had wound up here, but if she just took a moment's pause, she was sure she could piece things together. As of recently, she had been –

_Toby slams himself against the door and both of their whimpers bounce off the walls before he croons, loudly and wildly, "And when the pie was opened the birds began to sing – sing sing sing – what are little boys made of?"_

Oh. Right. She was dead.

And she had been spending all of her time as of late drifting between Bedlam and the netherlands. Neither of those places was anywhere near the sea. Even if she _had_ decided to visit the sea, she wouldn't have been able to feel anything there, considering spirits had no substance upon Earth. This must be a dream, then.

_But that's no reason not to enjoy it while it's here, is it, now?_

_Don't be a fool. Demons aren't allowed enjoyment._

She squeezed her eyes shut and gave her forearm a pinch to wake herself. She knew even before she'd opened her eyes that it hadn't worked; the sand under her feet was just as grainy and warm and comforting and real as before.

_Real . . . too real to be a dream . . ._

_For God's sake, Eleanor. You're dead. Bloody dead and gone. Which means you can't feel anything real. And there certainly aren't any beaches on Is._

_The sun feels so good . . . I'd forgotten what sun feels like . . ._

_Stop it. You're aren't feeling the sun. You're just dreaming –_

"Nellie."

She gasped and turned around. "Mr. Todd! I – you – what're you doing here?"

Sweeney raised an eyebrow as she raked astonished eyes over him: the man stood in the middle of the beach, clad in nothing but a dressing gown. _Well, this_ is_ your fantasy, love._ "I was going to ask the same of you, pet."

"Wh-what?"

"You weren't there when I woke up. I didn't know where you'd gone off to." He rolled his eyes. "Should have known you'd be by the water."

She couldn't process all of this at once. "I wasn't there . . ."

"When I woke up," he repeated, giving her an odd look. "Are you feeling well?"

_He's asking about me, he's concerned about me, he cares – _

_In your _dreams_ he cares, Nellie._

Trying to ignore the chattering voices in her mind, Nellie attempted a smile. "I'm fine, love, don't you fuss your head about me."

He took a step towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders and squinting into her face. "You're sure?"

"No – no, I'm not sure," Nellie burst out, tangling her fingers in her hair and pulling at the strands. His brow creased. "I don't know what's going on, Mr. Todd – I don't have a clue what's happening or why we're here or how we got here – "

"What do you mean? We came by carriage months ago."

" – no no no, that can't be – you're not supposed to be here – I'm not supposed to be here – and we're supposed to be angry at each other – "

Sweeney seemed genuinely confused at that, though she couldn't fathom why. "Angry? What for?"

" – and just nevermind that we're supposed to be _dead_ – "

"Hush," said Sweeney firmly, taking another step towards her and pulling her into a soft _(soft?!)_ embrace. "Calm down. You must've had a bad dream, that's all." She gave a hysterical laugh into the material of his dressing gown; _this_ was the dream, there was no chance in hell that _this _was actually happening.

"It's alright," he continued. "We're exactly where we're supposed to be, I'm not angry with you – and we're _certainly_ not dead. You're safe now, by the sea – just like you always wanted, Nellie . . . remember?"

This time she choked on her laughter. He pulled back to look at her, keeping his hands at her shoulders, eyes dark with worry. He trailed his left hand from her shoulder up to cradle her face and wipe away her tears. She hadn't realized she was crying.

"And you aren't s'posed to call me Nellie neither," she muttered feverishly.

He chuckled – that beautiful, low rumble from deep within his chest that she had not heard in so long. "Why not? That's your name, isn't it?" he murmured before bringing his lips to hers in a tender kiss that left her breathless. "Nellie . . ."

The next kiss was longer, deeper, but still with that undeniable tender quality that was completely out of character for Sweeney Todd. He was a passionate man, oh yes, she knew that very well . . . but tender, affectionate, almost – dare she even think it – loving, he was not.

_It's a dream,_ she told herself repeatedly in a mantra, _a dream, nothing more than a dream._

"_. . . and we're certainly not dead . . ."_

But what if this wasn't a dream? What if everything else – dying, Is, her entire experience in the afterlife – what if _that_ had been the dream? _No._ It wasn't possible. Is may not have made much sense, but it made a hell of a lot more sense than she and Sweeney running off to the seaside – than the pair of them living happily ever after – than he never murdering her – than he caring about her –

_But the sand is so warm and the sun is so bright and the water, the water, the sea, so blue and vast and open with possibilities, and he is so close and so warm and so caring and oh God –_

Unable to hold her own weight under her hurricane of confusion and delight and pain, Nellie sagged in his arms. "I don't understand . . ."

She wasn't able to finish the thought – her lips were numb – but her mind completed the sentence a thousand different ways: _I don't understand why you're calling me Nellie._ _I don't understand how we got here. I don't understand why we're by the sea. I don't understand why you're acting as though you love me. I don't understand how a dream can feel so real._

"What's not to understand?" he said in-between trailing a series of feather-light kisses down her jawbone. "We're here . . . by the sea . . . together . . ."

His lips pressed against her skin, kissing away all worry, all thought. The touch was achingly familiar; his mouth knew just where to brush, nip, caress, and just like always he managed to plow away all reasons against this so thoroughly it were as if they had never been there. So she let herself go, let herself feel, feel his touch and his kisses and his love, feel the way she naturally responded and returned the affections – for what was more real than that?

"Sweeney," she whispered, gripping his back, clutching his hair, fisting the material of his clothes – whatever part of him she could hold. "Sweeney – love – Mister – oh – "

Never ceasing his caresses and kisses, he carefully laid them both on the sand. "Shh, Nellie," he soothed. "I love you."

Her heart burst open and flooded into her mouth; every speck of her skin was on fire, and it wasn't painful but instead wonderful, like a scalding bath warming her from frigidity; the sun blinded her eyes and she couldn't see a thing yet could see everything, for he was silhouetted against the light, hovering slightly above her – and then he leaned closer, their bodies pressing together, wrapping his arms around her as he dropped another kiss on her mouth.

"Nellie . . . Nellie . . ."

But the sand underneath their bodies seemed to be shifting, melting, and at first she blamed it on the way the world was different, so different, now that he loved her too – but then she came to realize that she wasn't just imagining it – the ground beneath her really was dissolving . . .

". . . Nellie . . ."

She gripped Sweeney as the ground and the sky and the surroundings disappeared around her – he was suddenly all that was solid in this place of vanishing everythings –

". . . Nellie . . . Nellie!"

Cold. Confusion. Couldn't see. Couldn't see anything. White fog. No sand, no breeze, no sea. Confusion. Arms still encircled her. Real. Tangible. Real arms. Warm. Cold. Voice. Words. Voice. Voice that wasn't his.

". . . _Nellie!_. . ."

Words. Voice. Not him. Not him.

". . . come on, Nellie, I know you can get out of this. Nellie. _Nellie._ Come on . . ."

Her body spasmed and she coughed violently as though just rescued from being drowned. Fingers pushed against her shoulders to keep her lying down. She threw open her eyes, forced to squint immediately from how bright and light everything around her was.

"There you go," said the person squatted beside her. It took a moment for Nellie to determine who it was: Angie Ragg, one of the souls who wandered the Is netherlands to insure that specters did not become ensnared in anything too dangerous.

"I thought I said I never wanted to see you again," Angie teased as she helped Nellie into a sitting position.

Disoriented, Nellie rubbed a hand over her forehead, trying to ignore the way the world was still spinning a little. "What happened . . .?"

"You very nearly walked off into the joining." At Nellie's look of puzzlement, Angie reminded her, "The joining is where the earth and the sky seem to meet. Souls who enter never return to Is. You didn't know what you were doing – part of the joining is right by the mists, and you were caught in there . . ."

Nellie pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "And . . . and what're the mists?" Asking questions – bringing herself back to the present – was the only way she could keep herself from dwelling on what had just happened – or hadn't happened . . .

Angie pointed over Nellie's right shoulder. Nellie turned her head to see a mass of white fog some distance from where they sat. "Those are. They tangle you in fantasies so vivid that you become convinced they're absolutely real." Nellie's heart clenched; she hoped the internal pain did not cause anything in her demeanor to change. "I only just noticed you drifting towards the joining – you'd very nearly already stepped into it when I pulled you out."

"Thank you," said Nellie quietly.

So it had only been a dream. She hadn't imagined dying, as she'd dared to hope for those beautiful moments. As he always did, Sweeney had been able to make her believe a web of lies – or at least make her forget the truths.

And yet, even now, with she fully knowing the truth – knowing reality – even now his hands were touching her in places they had not in so long, his eyes shining with affection they could not hold, his voice whispering words he would never breathe . . .

"_Shh, Nellie. I love you."_

"Please, don't thank me," said Angie, waving a cursory hand. "Anyone halfway decent would have done just the same." She studied Nellie for a moment; the baker, discomfited, picked at the grass with her fingers. "You look ill, Nellie."

Nellie reached a hand up to touch her face. Smooth, moist with dew, a bit cold . . . but otherwise, her skin felt perfectly normal.

She had taken to testing herself like this lately. As she was determined not to erode away into nothing, she would occasionally brush her knuckles to her cheek to see if the skin felt at all the way Sweeney's had – like cold leather and stale dough. Whenever she began to detect traces of these feelings, she would drift around the nethers for a few circles until the symptoms left, and then return to Earth.

"Would you like help back to Is?" Angie offered.

"Oh, no – thank you – I've still got some things that I should be – "

"I'm sure these things can wait," Angie countered gently. "Your first priority should be taking care of yourself."

_Who appointed this woman a saint?_ Nellie thought, narrowing her eyes at the other female. Nellie appreciated the concern (it was nice to have_ someone_ care about her, even if it was only because of her job), but honestly. Such unending kindness and charity could wear on a person's nerves.

"It's very nice of you to offer, dear," said Nellie with as much patience as she could muster. "But I really do have matters to attend to before I can – go back to Is."

Angie ducked her head, but kept her eyes on Nellie. "Would you mind sharing these – matters with me?"

Nellie stiffened. "Yes, I would mind."

Angie bit her lip. "I don't mean to pry into business that isn't mine. I know we don't know each other very well . . . I just don't like seeing others suffer."

Nellie nearly rolled her eyes, but caught herself just in time; however ridiculously angelic the woman was, she did seem to care, and didn't deserve to be ridiculed.

Nellie's skills at deception were beginning to slip, however – or perhaps Angie Ragg was just extremely perceptive – for the next words to leave her mouth were, "I realize that sounds pathetic. I don't mean it to. But I can . . . it hurts me when others suffer. I certainly don't imagine that I feel their pain to the same degree that they do – but I emphasize, and I want to help."

"'S'quite noble of you," said Nellie. "But – if you don't mind me asking – if you want to help 'suffering' souls so much, why choose to live out here all isolated-like? Why not work as part of the introduction committee – y'know, the people who first greet souls when they arrive on Is? Or as part of the law force?"

"It _is_ isolating out here," Angie agreed. "But the people who need help the most are usually the ones wandering the nethers, not the newly arrived souls."

Nellie wove her fingers into the grass and yanked at the blades.

"As I've said," said Angie, "I know we don't know each other all that well, but I see a bit of me in you. Me when I first came to Is, at least." Nellie's eyes turned from the grass to Angie, whose hands were clasped, twisting in her lap. "I was . . . very upset when I first came here. Not over my death, but because I'd also left behind someone on Earth I cared about."

"How do you know – " Nellie started to demand, then stopped.

"How do I know that you've been on Earth a lot recently?" Angie supplied. Nellie did not nod, but the other woman seemed to find 'yes' hidden somewhere in her expression. "Your skin may not feel rough and worn yet, Nellie, but the gray tint has already taken deep root in your complexion. And those who visit Earth – it's usually because they miss someone they love."

"_Just give it up, Henry, the boy isn't ever gonna tell you nothing."_

"_He will eventually," the second man snarls, leaning close and sticking his face into her boy's, who shudders and twists but – bound by a straitjacket and scrunched into a stiff wood chair – cannot escape._

"_Little boy blue come blow your horn," he babbles, and she feels his anxiety riding over him in a wave, "the sheep's in the meadows, the cow's in the grinder, and just how are you doing today, sir – "_

"_Stop," the man breathes into his face, "stop it," and the boy falls silent, rocking, shaking, fear vibrating in his limbs and pooling in beads of sweat on his forehead. She stands beside him, and now she kneels over, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. Her face, insubstantial, without corporeal form, slides right through his body._

"_Face it, Henry," the first man continues. "He's never gonna tell you about the past. He's never gonna tell you why he murdered all those people, he's never gonna tell you if he forced the baker and barber into it before killing 'em or if they was helping to run the show too, he's never gonna tell you if he made all them pies himself – "_

_The second male straightens and whirls to face the guard. "He's going to tell me all that and more. The information is all there – he knows, I know he knows – beneath the insane rubble and decay, it's in there. Just got to get to it."_

"_It's been more'n two years since the boy came here," replies the other. "Maybe you should stop holding these questioning sessions and just accept that he isn't ever gonna – "_

"_Maybe _you _should _shut up_."_

"For me, it was my child." Angie wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "My first and last baby. I hardly remember him – I died in childbirth. My last memories are made up of overwhelming pain and a high-pitched wail. And – and then someone said – I don't know who said it, I didn't have money for a midwife, but the voice was definitely female – she said, "You have a baby boy," and placed something small and warm into my arms . . ."

The skin around her eyes crinkled. "Everything after that is fuzzy. Anyway – after I first died, I spent God only knows how many weeks on Earth searching for him. I wanted to know if my baby was okay. I could never find him. . . . To this circle, I don't know his name, or if he's still alive."

"I . . . I'm sorry." Nellie's throat was so devoid of saliva it was amazing she could croak out anything.

Angie smiled and shook her head. "It's okay. Really. This was all a long time ago – it was, let's see – my date of death, as well as my son's birth, is May 31st, 1828."

Nellie blanched.

_If you still had a conscience,_ _it would be throbbing with guilt right about now._

But, as she possessed no such thing, she felt no such throb – only a very deep, very hard plummet of her stomach.

So she hadn't been overanalyzing the first time she'd met Angie. She hadn't just been imagining seeing a resemblance to Toby. She hadn't been running too far with the fact that they shared a last name. For once, Nellie Lovett had been right on the mark.

"_Well, 'course workhouse boys like me can't never be sure of our real birthdays," he says with just the right amount of mixed emotions in his tone: shame that he can't be sure of even a simple fact such as his date of birth, pride that he has made it this far from such humble origins. "But the lady what brought me to the workhouse told the master I was born spring of 1828, or May 31__st__ to be exact."_

"A long time ago, as I said." Angie did some quick calculations on her fingers. "That must've been seventeen or eighteen years ago by now, I would think."

_Sixteen._

"But I – eventually I realized that I had to . . ." Her hands fluttered and closed over her knees. "Move on."

Move on to what, though? Nothing came after the fucking afterlife. Death couldn't be altered or changed no matter how much one might have wanted it to.

And suddenly Nellie was overcome with a feeling so foreign it left her winded: she wanted to tell Angie everything. She wanted to tell this woman the entire story of how she got here, of what her love for Sweeney had compelled her to do, of all the mistakes she'd made, of all the things she would do different if she could – of all the things she would do just the same. She wanted to tell Angie that she knew her son, and that because of her, the boy was now insane.

She wanted to tell the truth.

Because she was tired of_ this_ – of skirting the edges of sincerity, of not lying but not being honest – and it was true that she couldn't change much about her current situation, but by God, she could change this.

But she could not open her mouth; she could not find her voice. As usual, she could not bring herself to bring that sort of pain upon someone. Sometimes it was easier to not know the truth.

_You're really still trying to convince yourself it was better for _him_ to not know the truth?_

"Just because you're dead doesn't mean you have to stop living," Angie continued. "Your soul is as alive as it ever was . . . and it's more important than a physical form can ever be."

_("death is for the alive, my dear")_

Realizing that a lump was gathering in her throat and that moisture was collecting in her eyelids, Nellie ripped her gaze away from Angie and stared at her knees instead, fingers clenching and unclenching amongst blades of grass.

"I don't know if you already know this," Angie continued, "but sometimes we spirits . . . sometimes we can briefly communicate with those who are still alive." Nellie's fingers dug into the ground, amassing dirt under her nails. "Normally, of course, the living cannot sense us in any form, but sometimes they can hear us . . . though only if they are able – and willing – to listen."

Nellie swallowed. Was it possible? Was there a chance that she could speak to Toby again? Apologize for all she had done to him?

_It's a little late to apologize, Lovett._

Even despite the bitter voice in the back of her mind, the idea that she might be able to speak to Toby seized a firm hold on her. If he could hear her . . .

Then what? Say that Toby managed to hear her apology – what would she do afterwards? Continue to spend her afterlife in penitence for acts that she could never receive penitence for? What was the point to that?

_You've been down this road before, Nellie. Don't do this again. There's isn't anything else for you to do but wander Earth and the nethers. There isn't anything else you deserve._

"Not pulling my leg, are you?" Nellie managed to mutter. "About this being able to communicate with 'em thing?"

Angie shook her head. "No." She reached out a hand as though to touch Nellie on the arm, but then her fingers fell into her lap again and her head tilted to the side. "You can't stay on Earth forever, Nellie. And you can't honestly tell me that there isn't anything – anyone – on Is that you still care about."

"_Careful," he murmurs in a play threat, running his fingers across her throat, "or the citizens of London will be enjoying a little _baker _next."_

"_And who'd be baking that pie, then?" she demands. "Can't exactly picture _you_ down there chopping me to bits . . ."_

_His lips descend to her neck to follow the designs his fingers are tracing. She feels him smile against her throat, teeth grazing along her skin the way she imagines a blunt razor would. "Don't be so sure about that, pet."_

_She smiles too, threading her fingers in his hair and refusing to let go._

Angie took one of Nellie's hands between her own, and it was only then that Nellie noticed how fiercely her own body was trembling.

"One more time," Nellie murmured, only aware of her decision as the words left her mouth. "I've got to go to Earth one more time. Then I'll come back to Is."

xxx

Sweeney Todd had never believed in being trailed by ghosts. Had never believed those people who claimed to be followed by spirits. But now he did. Because there was no word but one for what he was now: haunted.

_(" people think it's haunted")_

"_I don't think you're telling the truth."_

_Lying naked on her bed, in his arms, she stiffens. "Wh-what d'you mean?"_

"_About the room upstairs."_

_The tension leaves her body, but she is still puzzled. "Dunno what you're talking about, love. You mean your room?"_

_He nods. "You told me when I first came back that you were never able to rent that room out. That people claimed it was haunted and wouldn't come anywhere near it."_

"_That I did," she agrees._

"_I don't believe you."_

"_Oh, believe it, love. You're the first person to live up there in fifteen years." She maps out lazy streets and avenues along his arms with her fingertips. "What, d'you think I went and sprinkled the place with cobwebs and dust for your arrival just so's I could lie to you about no one ever living there?"_

"_No. I believe that part. What I don't believe is that no one wanted to rent it out."_

"_They _didn't_ want to rent it out," she says indignantly._

"_People are not _that _superstitious, my dear. And nor do they have such long memories. I'm sure you received many requests from willing tenants."_

"_I tell you, I didn't – "_

_He puts his fingers over her mouth to silence her. She gives them a playful bite, catches sight of his solemn expression, and stops._

_Removing his hand from her lips to rest against her jawline, he continues: "I think that it was you who planted the idea about the room being haunted into their heads. I think you were the one who insisted that it was haunted, and refused to allow them to stay here."_

"_How long've you been working on this grand theory, love?" she teases, but isn't quite meeting his eyes. He takes her chin and forces her to look at him. Her grin fades and she sighs. "Alright, alright, you caught me – I told people the place was haunted and that they couldn't stay here 'cause of that – you happy now?"_

_The answer was already known to him, but he is still surprised to have it confirmed aloud. "Why?"_

_She shrugs. "Didn't like the idea of others milling around up there in your room. And I wanted it waiting for you when you came back."_

"_I wasn't supposed to come back, Mrs. Lovett," he growls, angry licking his body into a sudden fury._

_Her eyes narrow. "You think I don't know that? Didn't stop me from believing in you. You said you'd be back, so I believed you'd be back."_

But Lucy didn't . . .

_She reads his pain even through his mask and places a palm on each of his cheeks. He shakes off her touch and turns away from her. But the bare skin of her chest presses against his back, and she enfolds her arms around him from behind. She is as stubborn as he and will never let him forget it._

_He scowls into his pillow. Why does she never leave him alone? Is it physically impossible for her to grant him a moment's peace?_

So push her away. You're stronger than she is. It wouldn't be hard. Make her leave.

_He stays where he is._

Nails biting into his palms, he vaulted from his cot and hurtled himself towards the wall, as though he could hurtle her away – or perhaps himself – if he moved fast enough.

_Lucinda Roselyn Barker_, he thought as he stepped through the wall, just has he had done every circle since he had arrived upon Is, _Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker . . ._

And, just like every circle since he had arrived, when he opened his eyes, he was still standing in his room. Lucy was still not here – or, if she was, she still didn't want to find him.

He usually didn't know which thought hurt worse. Today, it didn't hurt at all. As he stared at the cobbled stone wall, he felt nothing. Not regret, not fury, not sorrow – but something more indifferent than apathy and more cruel than pain: nothing. That dry hollow of nothingness that had nearly swallowed him when his afterlife first began – that maddening urge where there were no urges – just a fist around his lungs demanding release, escape . . .

_But she believes that there is an escape, that they can be more than what they've made themselves – even as she butchers rather than salvages, and contuses kisses upon his skin, she believes that this is not their end, that there is a future beyond smudged windows and blood and pain, she believes in him –_

In numb panic, he fled to Mrs. Lovett's work premises. The Mrs. Lovett who was still around, that was.

Reyna's neck twisted over her shoulder when she heard him enter. She stood by her giant calendar, making even more nonsensical tally marks and abbreviations. Her mouth puckered and her eyebrows pulled low over her eyes as she noted who stood in her doorway, as though in disappointment.

"Good morning, Mr. Barker," she said. He was too rattled to snap his correct name at her, as he always did, and her eyebrows drew tighter together. "It has been quite some time since you came to see me. Not since before the wedding of Ivan Filipov and Suchin Metharom. I have to confess that I'd resumed hoping you no longer care about our bargain . . ."

Sweeney stalked over to the calendar to stand beside her, but didn't meet her eyes as he thrust words through his strangled lungs: "How many days?"

By contrast, Reyna continued watching him, dark brown eyes

_mottled brown like muck, like crumbling tree bark, like melting chocolate_

puncturing his skin

_and seeing far too much, knowing more than any working class woman should, loving more than any Devil's wife could_

with their intensity. "You seemed happier then, at the wedding. Maybe happy is the wrong word – it was as though you were free – as though your shackles had been removed long ago, but you'd only just realized how much they had restrained you from – "

"How many days?" he snarled.

He watched from his peripheral vision as her mouth frowned, but her face turned sideways, like his, to examine her calendar. She performed some speedy calculations in her head, murmuring under her breath, before announcing, "Six hundred and twenty-six Earth days since we made our promise. Still shy of your two years, I'm afraid."

He did not thank her or even grant a nod of acknowledgement; he merely whirled around and swept towards the door.

"If I might, Mr. Barker?" she called after him.

Sweeney halted but kept his back to her.

"It isn't a crime to cast off your shackles after you've served your time," said Reyna, quieter. "It isn't immoral to not always be twisting in pain."

He whipped back towards her, blood howling in his ears, thrusting away the numbness in a rush of lava through his veins. "What do you know of immoral acts? You think morality is dictating how others should _'live'_ after life ends? That you know what they've suffered and how they've served their time?"

"I don't presume to know any such things," said Reyna softly.

He blinked, forcing himself to see that this was not the woman who usually lectured him on these same subjects, that the woman before him now did not deserve to have such ire thrown at her. He bit his tongue and glared at the floor.

"I know only what I see," she continued, her words measured and even; he matched his breathing to her metronomic cadence, calming himself. "I see many souls like you, Mr. Barker – and that isn't to say that they are you – that they've been through what you have, experienced and suffered in precisely the say ways . . . but they are like you nonetheless. They don't know how to exist – they didn't on Earth, and they still don't on Is."

She pursed her lips again, searching his face. When he offered her nothing, she continued:

"But I also see when they figure it out – I see the way their smiles become natural rather than forced, their hands purposeful rather than limp . . . and I could have sworn I saw that in you at the wedding reception, while you were dancing."

_Nothing has changed except for he and she, or everything is different save for them – he doesn't know which anymore – but he can't care enough to know either. Not when they're spinning around the room in a place without pain or hatred, not when his body can dance and his mind slide into comfortable ease. Not when nothing but the motion of their two bodies performing this simplest of gestures – of steps, of rituals, of celebrations – matters._

"Mr. Barker?"

"Todd," he growled, normality resuming. "Thanks for your time."

"Please, just – " she swallowed and fidgeted with her sleeves

_she always fidgets with his cravat or buttons or lapels, any absent-minded excuse to be just a little closer_

" – just think about what I've said."

He left without another word.

xxx

Toby, as usual, was not hard to find among the men in his room at the asylum – there were many of them, but he stood out plain as day to her. She hastened to his side and knelt beside him. Heedless of her presence, he continued to stare, wide-eyed, at one certain brick, fingers of both hands spread apart and pressed against the wall, his body rocking back and forth.

"Toby," she breathed. As usual, he did not seem to hear her. Her hopes fell a little. Was this ever going to work? Angie had said that, in order for spirits to communicate with them, the living had to be able and willing to listen, whatever that meant. How did she know if he was able and willing, anyway?

She tried again. "Toby. Toby, can – can you hear me? Toby . . . Toby, please."

Still no response. Nellie swallowed.

_Just say what you have to say. Get it off your back. Even if he doesn't hear you, you did the best you could._

"I'm so sorry, Toby," she murmured. "For everything I ever did to you. I loved you so much – still do love you – you were a son to me . . ." She winced and looked away from him. "But real mothers never abandon their children."

Her eyes moved to him again. "I regret what I did to you every moment of every bloody circle and day. I know that doesn't change anything for you. It doesn't change much for me either. But please know that – "

She broke off and took in a sharp breath:

Toby had moved.

Had not only moved, but had looked around the room.

It had been brief – a solitary twitch of his head up and then to the right – but it had been there. As though looking for her.

_Don't get carried away, Nellie. The boy's insane, remember? His movements usually don't have rhyme or reason behind them._

Heart in her throat, Nellie dug up the will to continue. "But please know that it's true." His head twitched again; her heart squeezed tight and then swelled huge and it was a miracle that it didn't break right then and there. "Please know that I'm sorry – " another twitch of his head " – and how much I love you."

Her heart was still in entirely the wrong spot, was still throbbing and shrinking and growing in an agonizing way – but it was time for her to leave. She did not know if Toby's insanity was the reason behind the way he had looked wildly around the room, or if he had actually felt her there . . .

But she had said all that she could. To linger here would solve nothing. It was time to move on. Thoughts of Toby would always plague her – and yet, she already felt a certain peace, a feeling of resolution . . . of finally being able to bury the matter and move on.

She brushed her lips against his forehead – knowing neither of them would feel it – before rising to her feet and departing from Earth.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews, my darling readers, are love.

Anonymous reviews:

_Noodlemantra_: Oh, Iris is a song? Whoops! My bad. You'll have to forgive my ignorance; my iPod consists largely of musical soundtracks. xD Now that I actually know what you're talking about, I see what you mean! Anywho, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing (and for helping me become a more musically-cultured person)!

_Ghost_: Thank you, m'dear. Happy (belated) holidays to you too!


	23. Raging Fires Shall Flood The Soul

_It is better to be feared than loved. – Niccolo Machiavelli_

xxx

It was always interesting to see who would show up for each of his art classes. There were some faces that had been present since the beginning of his teaching career – the pudgy boy, the sneering female, the tart, the boy who'd spilled the paint can during the first class, the pimpled young man – and there were always at least one or two for whom it was their first time. Some spirits would piously arrive for every class, some would come every once in a while, and some would never show up again after their first lesson. Whether this was because they lacked a passion for sculpture or because they detested the teacher, Sweeney didn't know nor care.

What he did know and care about was the fact that today, Judge Turpin was seated at one of the desks in the room.

Upon later reflection, Sweeney had no idea how he managed to give the class instructions for that circle. Somehow, his mind and mouth disengaged from one another, so even as he spoke of creating coil pots, his brain was working furiously to a different tune, dissecting all possible reasons for his being here. Turpin's expression was one of complete nonchalance, as though he attended Sweeney's classes all the time. This only cranked the artist's thoughts faster.

Once done explaining the day's task, he made a beeline for the judge.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Todd," Turpin greeted him, glancing up from his hunk of clay. "How have you been fairing?"

Sweeney was not in the mood for formalities. "What do you want?"

Turpin's forehead wrinkled. "I'm afraid I don't – "

"Why are you here?" Sweeney barked.

"In your class, you mean?" Turpin tried to clarify, to which Sweeney gave a stiff nod. "Isn't it obvious? I want to learn pottery." Sweeney continued to glower. After an extended silence, Turpin sighed. "You are still suspicious of my intentions, I see. Mr. Todd, I again want to assure you again that I have put the past behind me – I promise you."

A snarl ripped its way from Sweeney's throat before he could stop it. "Since when do your promises and assurances mean anything?"

Turpin frowned. "Do all men not deserve second chances?"

"No. They don't."

Turpin's frowned deepened. "I had thought you would be in a better mood today, considering your baker has returned."

The meaning behind those words didn't settle in immediately; Sweeney continued to seethe, fists curled, breathing shallow and rapid. When what the judge had declared finally did snap into place, Sweeney went still as death itself.

Seeming to mistake Sweeney's prolonged silence for pondering whether or not to lunge at him, Turpin went on speaking. "Well, I know that you . . . are on friendly terms with her . . . and how upset you were when it looked as though she had left the afterlife forevermore. I thought her presence might have cheered you."

Sweeney still had not moved, could not move, could not so much as breathe, so flooded over with shock as he was; his vision was beginning to narrow and his hearing beginning to dim and somewhere in the back of his mind amidst the ringing void a voice was screaming, _Breathe, dammit, breathe,_ but he could not heed it, could not process this either –

"Mr. Todd? Are you feeling well?"

He grabbed a lungful of air through his nose, followed quickly by another. "Fine."

Turpin was still watching him with a peculiar look on his face. "Did you not know that Mrs. Lovett had returned to Is?"

Another suck of air. "I knew."

"I thought for sure she would have come to you, of all people – "

"She did," Sweeney cut him off. "I was just not aware she told you of her return."

Turpin shook his head. "She didn't. I was one of the many who flocked to her shop in the circles after the gossip had circulated – "

"Mr. Todd!" The pudgy boy _(perhaps you should learn his name)_ waved an arm in the air.

"Your attention is needed elsewhere," Turpin noted with a slight smile. He kneaded his fingers into his clay slab again. "Well, good day to you, Mr. Todd. Perhaps we shall talk another time."

Sweeney nodded once before marching towards the pudgy boy. _Breathe, breathe, breathe,_ he reiterated to himself throughout the next two chords. _Bloody Eleanor Lovett is not going to be the reason you collapse into pieces._

So she was back. She was here. After swearing to himself that he would keep as far away from her as possible, both mentally and physically, it turned out she'd been sleeping across the room from him for . . . for how long? How long had she been back on Is?

"For weeks," said Eloise when he posed her this query at the end of class, completely taken aback by the question. "Well, I mean, Is doesn't have weeks, of course, and I haven't been counting the circles – but it's definitely been a while." The skin of her forehead scrunched together. "I thought you _knew_, Mr. Todd. I thought she would have come to see you straightaway, since you're such good friends. Maybe that's why she hasn't been happy . . ."

"What do you mean?"

Eloise shook her head. "I don't know. I can't figure it out, Mr. Todd. She goes through her days as though everything is normal – but there's something . . . different. Her smiles and laughter seemed forced, and her eyes never light up like they used to. I can't believe she hasn't come to see you. Maybe I'll ask her why."

"No," said Sweeney, "don't. It's fine. Thank you."

Eloise flounced out of the classroom in her usual manner cheery manner, though there was a definite fold of concern between her eyebrows.

After tidying up the classroom, Sweeney returned to his shop, raking his eyes over every inch of the room. His monetary records had been recorded, his supplies had been inventoried, his tables had been wiped down, his floor had been swept – was there no other menial task for him to occupy his mind with? Now more than ever, his thoughts were on the verge of spilling every which way faster than he could keep up with them. But perhaps now he should not attempt to stop his brain; perhaps this was something that _needed_ to be thought about.

_Weeks._ Eleanor had been back on Is for weeks . . . many circles . . . however you put it, a damn long time. And all the souls of Is had been aware of it except him. Why had she not come to see him? Surely she would have started bringing him meals and gin again?

_Are you mad?_ It made perfect sense for her to not have anything to do with him, considering the argument they'd had during their last encounter.

But that argument was nothing compared to some of their other altercations. Surely by now she could have licked her wounds and moved on. Well, at least moved on enough to bring things between them back to normal _(whatever _that_ word means anymore)_, and resume bringing him his food, sharing a bottle of gin, sitting together after a circle of –

What was he thinking?! Back to normal? With _her_? He was not to let her so much as _breathe_ on the perimeter of his life anymore.

_But –_

But nothing. But absolutely fucking nothing.

What had she come back to Is for, though? He'd not known exactly where Eleanor had run off to, but had figured the most likely place was Bedlam. What had prompted her to return? Clearly it wasn't him. Eloise and Anatoly, perhaps? She did care for them dearly. But she cared for Tobias as well.

Eloise had reported that the baker wasn't happy. That she was merely going through the motions of her life. His blood simmered. That wicked hypocrite. After endlessly lecturing him on not dwelling in the past, on not being so miserable all the time, on moving forward, she wouldn't try and do the same? She had no right to mope about as she was doing – she had undergone not even half of the pain inflicted upon him during his life – she did not get to preach about something one day and then turn her back on her own words the next –

Before he knew what he was doing, Sweeney was on his feet and striding through the wall, straight into _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_.

She was still at her shop, as he'd known she would be, yet the sight of her standing there jolted him in a way he could not explain. Her back faced him, body turned towards the oven, but his clomping footsteps alerted her to his presence and she spun around, untidy crimson curls that had liberated themselves from their knot swinging about her face. Their eyes locked and for a moment the narrowed vision, the dimmed hearing, the difficulty in breathing all returned – then the clock ticked on and everything was normal, and he resumed walking towards her until only the counter set into the middle of the floor separated them.

"Hello, Mr. Todd," she said without a hint of emotion, before turning around again to refocus on the oven, which she was filling with trays of pastries.

The simmer in his veins heated to a boil. He had saved her from staying on Earth forever and dissipating into nothing – he had let her use him in every sense of the word while they were alive – he had tolerated her sermons of moving on – and now, for her to be so ungrateful, for her to turn her back on her own words, for her to barely even acknowledge him –

"You have to stop this," he told her.

"Stop what." Her voice was still completely unafflicted – so devoid of everything that her words did not even come out as a question – and she did not turn around.

"You can't brood forever, Eleanor."

"I'm not brooding."

Why would she not look at him? "You are – and it needs to stop."

"Not interacting with you is not the equivalent of brooding, Mr. Todd," she replied with no luster. "I happen to be getting along just fine."

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

"Don't you want me to avoid you?"

In three strides he was on the other side of the counter next to her, and he grabbed her arm, jerking her around to face him. Her eyes widened – a little gasp of breath fell from her lips – then her gaze darkened.

"Don't dance around the question, woman."

"Let go of me, Mr. Todd." This time – finally – there was emotion in her voice, a soft smolder of anger.

His lips peeled apart in a hideous baring of teeth. "I said not to dance around the question. Why are you avoiding me?"

She yanked her arm from his grip. "Maybe it's 'cause _I didn't want to see you_."

Sweeney did not relent. "Eloise says you're unhappy."

She laughed at that, the noise loud and harsh in her clearly rising fury. "As if you care whether I'm happy or not. You're probably just here 'cause you want something from me – angry that I won't reply for you anymore when someone poses a question? Angry that I won't bring you any gin?"

He took a step towards her, and she took a matching one back, though the movement seemed to be out of wanting to keep her distance from him rather than fear. "I'm angry because you can't exhort on moving beyond the past one minute and then do the exact opposite of that – "

Her cheeks colored with indignant fury. "Don't talk to me about moving on, you filthy hypocrite. I'm doing what you never could – no, I'm doing what you never _tried_ – I'm trying to move on, I'm trying to get on with things and go forward – "

"If youwere, then you wouldn't have been avoiding me all these circles." She stared at him. He moved forward another pace; she matched it with another step back. "You would have come to see me when you first returned to Is – apologize for what you said – "

"_Apologize_ to you?"

" – because part of _moving on_, my dear, is first acknowledging the past, as you so often told me – "

"I've acknowledged you bloody enough already," she shouted.

Both of their tempers were spiraling about – rocketing off – vibrating within the walls, climbing higher with each second, ready to burst in an uncontrollable blaze at any moment. He did not understand why he was so furious, nor did he pause to reason it out; hot sticky anger left no room for logical reasoning.

Blood thumped through his skull as he closed in further on her; her back hit the wall but no fear registered in her face. And this made him angrier – he wanted her to fear him – he wanted to see alarm pool in her eyes and seep between her bones – why was she never afraid of him? He would _make_ her feel fear, he would _make_ her know what it was to be frightened –

"What happened to the Eleanor Lovett I used to know?" he snarled. "The one who spoke of moving on from the past and meant every word? The woman who would never let herself be defeated?"

"Why the hell do you care?" she snapped. He was near enough to hear each of her ragged breaths, see the red flush as it spread from her cheeks to her neck to – his eyes drifted further before he snapped them back to her blazing gaze. "Let's not play charades anymore, love – I've tired of lies and I'm sure you have too. You never gave a shit about me 'sides from what I could bring you to eat or how I could warm your bed – " a frisson of anger rocked through his body " – in fact you don't give a shit about anything apart from a dead woman that you'll never even see again – "

"SHUT UP!" he roared.

"Or what?" she yelled. "Or you'll try to strangle me again? Or maybe cut me across the throat with a _fettling knife_? You go right ahead, love, if it'll make you feel better. I know how much _better_ it made you feel about Lucy each time you slashed open some man's throat – "

Nearly blind with rage, he grabbed both of her shoulders and shook her._ "I told you to shut up!"_

"Face it, Sweeney," she shouted. "You have nothing left. Nothing left to take away from me or anyone else. Nothing else to try and mask your pain in – but if you'd like to try and kill me and see what happens – see how it makes you feel _so much better_ – then you be my guest – "

Another shudder of rage coursed through his body as he stared at her, wild-eyed, fingers locked around her shoulders. Anger overtook him more and more thoroughly with each passing moment, chewing up and swallowing any hope of rational thought. The world was narrowing – promises of having nothing further to do with her, reasons behind his anger, even reasons behind why he hated her – thoughts about Is, Eloise, Turpin, Johanna, Lucy – he did not, could not recall any of that. Not now.

Eleanor was trembling of fury too beneath his hands. Standing near as she was, she was close enough for him to feel the angry heat of her body. Close enough for her scent of flour and cinnamon and coriander and smoke to assault his nostrils. The red flush of her skin was nearly dark enough to match her maroon rust tresses. Her lips were parted and sucked at the air in short whistling bursts, her brow glistened with a thin film of sweat, her eyes burned. Her breast heaved. Each of his senses were heightened to an unparalleled degree and they eclipsed everything else and then – and then –

Then there was nothing but the desire to feel. To have. To take.

He slammed his mouth down to hers, pushing her tighter against the wall while pulling her to him by the shoulders, crushing her between the both of them, biting and clawing so intensely he might have been trying to climb into her very skin. She gasped into his mouth and he felt her struggle against him, beat him on the arms with her fists, kick out at his shins with her toes . . . but then the fight left her and she wilted against him, letting his lips and teeth and tongue kiss with wanton need at the wonderfully familiar taste of _her_: of the flour clinging to her skin; of the sweet and tangy spices from her kitchen; of the faint sheen of salty sweat acquired over her long workday . . . letting his hands dance from her shoulders to her hair to her chest to her neck to her waist with fits of indecisiveness, with the longing to be at all of them at the same time, with the desire to claim what he had not in so long.

His head dipped lower to bite along her jawline and under her ear – she moaned softly against his cheek and her fingers fisted into his hair. No longer was she resisting or passive; she was just as desperate and gluttonous as he now. Her hands gripped everywhere they could, mouth felling feverish kisses to his face, helping him earnestly as he tore away their clothes, legs lifting from the floor and wrapping around his waist and eliciting a groan from him.

She was wrong. He did still have something left. He still had a power – _this_ power – this power to manipulate others to his will – this power that had lured men to his barber chair, this power that had turned even the most capable humans to nothing more than gurgling bundles of panic, this power to know exactly where to touch her, exactly how to make her writhe and gasp and growl – this power to be in control . . .

But yet he was not in control – could not be – she would not let him – not when she knew exactly where to kiss and touch and linger as well. They would twist and thrash in this power struggle forever – and he would exalt in every moment of it. Each movement, sound, taste, sensation was so familiar – as though it had not been that long ago since their last time together like this – as though this were the one constant in their ever changing lives – as though it didn't matter how long they were separated because they knew each other so well it would all come flooding back instantly, always . . .

_("you and me")_

His knees buckled, her weight sagged, and they crumpled to the floor, exhausted and gulping for air, she landing half on top of him. His limbs trembled and his chest heaved violently, every part of him absolutely spent – but none of this prevented him from craving physical feeling, needing further contact. . . . He draped an arm over her and drew circles on her back with his fingertips. She purred and nestled her face against his chest.

Each breath of air hurt – he realized belatedly she'd bruised and scratched him more than he'd thought during their coupling – but the splotches of red he could glimpse on her back that would later darken purple left no doubt in his mind that she'd not given anything she hadn't received. His fingers brushed over one of her deeper scarlet patches and she winced, but did not shift her position.

As the heat faded and the sweat dried, he became aware of the goosebumps on his flesh. He stretched out an arm, attempting to grab his clothes that were puddled on the ground without getting up, but they were too far away. Every tendon and muscle throbbing with delicious pain, he sat up – she slid away from him – and scooted across the floor. He grabbed his robes, intending to lay back down and throw the material over both of them as a blanket. As he fell wearily back to the ground, he caught sight of her. She'd coiled herself into a ball, knees tucked to her chest, arms around her legs – _just how Tobias looked when we left_ – but even more strange were her eyes, wide and dark and fearful as they watched him.

"Scared of me, pet?" he murmured, the first intelligible words between them since their shouted argument that already felt an oddly long time ago. His tone was casual, teasing – so he surprised himself with how much her expression unnerved him. How much he cared what her answer would be.

She rested her head against her knees, keeping her face turned towards his. "No, not of you. Of myself."

Cold without her body against his, he beckoned her to him. Her face didn't change, but she obliged, returning to where she'd been moments before with her torso half on his and her head over his heart. He pulled his robes over both of them before tossing an arm over her back.

"Why?" he asked.

Her breath came out slowly and blew against his chest. "Can't trust myself anymore. Never know what I'm going to do next – my head screams one thing, and my body and heart just spring up and do another . . ."

They were unfortunately alike in that way. He resumed tracing patterns along her back. Yes, very unfortunately alike.

"You tore my bloomers."

He followed her gaze to where said bloomers laid in a heap on the ground perhaps two feet away. They were, indeed, in tatters. He'd simply not had the patience to fight with all her damn laces, buttons, and knots.

"And my corset too," she murmured sulkily. "My nicest one."

He rolled his eyes. "Eleanor, it isn't my fault you insist on wearing such ridiculous contraptions under your clothes. You have every possible undergarment available to you in the Is shops; surely you could purchase something simpler to take off."

"Wasn't shopping for simplicity in removal when I bought them."

"Well, do so in the future, then."

She froze at that. He did too. _ In the future. _That implied that this would happen again. That implied that their relationship would now return to what it used to be.

– _oh God – _

And that was when what had just happened washed over him – really washed over him – and he could feel from the sudden tension in her body that it had washed over her too – not that he hadn't known what had just happened, but somehow he had only distantly acknowledged it, only vaguely recognized the facts – but now they shone as clear as day and now, _now_ he realized –

He had fucked Eleanor Lovett.

Something that he had sworn never again to do – something that had never crossed his mind of again doing – something he never should have done. Not again. Not now. Not ever.

He'd told her once that she was a bloody wonder, and he'd meant it, too. She could amaze him, baffle him, enrage him, surprise him, soothe him, any and all at any given time. He simply did not understand her.

But in this moment, he didn't understand himself either – didn't understand how he could use her for sex now that he knew that she'd lied to him, deceived him, betrayed his wife – _betrayed me_ – didn't understand how logic could abandon him so completely – didn't understand how he could never keep a promise to himself – didn't understand how he could hate the woman currently lying, prostrate and naked, on his torso, and yet not summon any will to push her away – moreover he had initiated what had just happened between them –

_I've missed it._

The thought dropped on him swifter than a falcon and heavier than an anvil, and his innards writhed; he_ had_ missed it. Missed having human contact, missed having any sort of relationship. Whatever could be said ill of her, and however much he would have liked to deny it, the two of them had been companions while alive. Confidants. She'd always been there, and a mutual dependency had grown. It had been foolish to ever think death could eradicate that entirely. He felt himself calming as he reasoned it out to himself. Yes, foolish for him to ever try and dissolve their relationship, as he had been doing for so many circles previous. There wasn't much to their relationship anyway beyond bland companionship – which was really just a result of neither of them, for their different reasons, getting along exceptionally well with other people. So what was the harm in continuing it?

_What about Lucy?_

_You've already betrayed her. Doesn't make any difference how many times you do it. The act is done._

_Besides . . . she'd want you to be happy._

Before he had time to dissect _that _bewildering thought, Eleanor's voice infiltrated the silence and his musings: "So – how'd you find out I'd come back to Is?"

He stiffened at the mere memory. "Turpin."

"Bastard," she replied. Her hands slid up his arms and began kneading the muscles in his shoulders. She had once done this gesture unthinkingly, naturally, back when they'd been alive, but now there was a certain caution, a tension in her hands that unconsciously mimicked the one in his shoulders she was trying to ease. "Put on the most pretentious air you've ever seen when he stopped by."

"He mentioned many souls flocking to see you . . ."

"Oh, God – flocking is the word, that's for sure. Word travels fast here, as you know. I'd only been back two full circles when suddenly business was busier than it ever'd been – and you _know_ how busy it was before. People were coming in right, left, and center, bombarding me with questions and concerns – where had I been, was I alright, and oh gosh they thought I'd left Is forever . . . I just repeated over and over about how I'd been taking some time off in my room, and that was all – saying how my death had finally settled in, and I needed some time to collect myself and whatnot."

The tension began to leave her massaging hands, and he felt it start to leave his shoulders too. "But you weren't in your room."

"No," she agreed, "I wasn't. But sometimes you've just got to tell a l – " she swallowed and changed thoughts midsentence (not that it was really needed, since they both knew perfectly well what she'd been about to say) " – but those dunces didn't need to know that. 'S'not as though I even knew most of 'em, and anyway I would've gotten in trouble if they knew the truth . . ."

Sweeney's wandering fingers absently traced his name across her lower back. "So you were – "

"On Earth, yes. With Toby." Her massaging fingers tightened for a moment on his flesh and he hissed as pain erupted in his muscles, which were already sore from the bruises their intimacy had left upon him. "Sorry, love. Anyway, so what I told them wasn't a lie, really. I _did_ need some time to pull myself together. When I finally had, I came back here . . ."

He sensed a 'but' that was half-poised for release, but she fell silent. His hand glided from her lower back up between her shoulder blades. She stayed quiet a moment, then sighed, turning her head so her chin was propped on his chest and she could look into his eyes.

"You were right," she murmured. "I've gotten a hold of myself – but I still can't move on. I don't know what to move on to. That's why your words got me so riled – they were true. Nothing comes after death . . . it's always just going to be more of this. I don't know what to live – " they both flinched " – exist for."

"_So what happens now?"_ she had asked him back when he had first returned from Earth after finding Johanna, and had been trying to find a purpose to his existence – so long ago now, or so it felt like.

"_I'm just wondering what your goal is, is all. What you want now."_

He didn't know what to exist for either. He didn't know much of anything right now.

All he knew was that when his devil had been gone he had desperately wanted to catch a glimpse of maroon rust curls, had longed to drown his never-ending thoughts in the river of her voice, had desired to hear her decidedly-unladylike guffaw of a laugh. Had wished for her company in the evening. Had missed her smile.

Beyond that, Sweeney Todd was utterly without answers.

Her chin slipped to the side and her cheek pressed against his chest again. "But I'm sure I'll figure it out soon enough. Not like I don't have enough time to do so." She paused, but it was pregnant; he could tell she was not yet done speaking. "What about you, love?"

He did not want to say his thoughts out loud, did not want to admit them to her. But he'd already told her of being at a loss for what came next before, so he supposed there was no point to concealing it now. Besides, it wasn't as though the bloody woman wouldn't deduce his thoughts eventually.

His fingers traced up the back of her neck and buried in her hair to remove each of the pins and let the curls tumble free. "I don't know, Eleanor."

"'S'alright, love," she said, "I'm sure you too'll eventually – " She broke off as though hit with a sudden realization and lifted her head to stare at him. "Since when d'you call me Eleanor?"

He looked back at her steadily. "That's your name, isn't it?"

To be honest, he had not comprehended – until just now when she mentioned it – that, in his mind, she had gone from being Lovett to Eleanor. His insides tightened. When had his subconscious made such a shift? More importantly, why? She had always been Lovett to him – they had always referred to each other by last name – and yes, on occasion he had used her first name, and she his; it simply was not natural for lovers to always address one another by their surnames – this, however – _now_, however –

She chewed on her lip. "Yes, I know it's my name, but – "

"I've called you Eleanor before," he demurred.

"But not since – "

She stopped, though he knew what the continuation of this sentence was supposed to be: _'But not since we died.'_

'_Not since you killed me.'_

Annoyance began to fester. "If you would prefer for me to not use your given name – "

"No, it's not that – only just . . ." She adjusted herself, settling further into his stiff arms. "Well, no one ever calls me Eleanor – 'cept Barsid, I s'pose, but he's a peculiar fellow – but – if you're going to use my – I mean to say – I usually go by – well – " she swallowed " – you might as well call me Nellie."

But Nellie did not suit her. Nellie was a soft name; Nellie was a name for a lady, supple and frivolous. Weak. Eleanor, however, was a name of power. Of strength.

Besides, Nellie meant light, just as Lucy did. This woman may have stolen much from his wife, but he would never let her steal Lucy's name, Lucy's light. Yes, Eleanor could sometimes mean light too, but that was only when derived from the Greeks – and her family was not Greek – therefore the name was English, so its meaning was _the other_ – far more fitting.

"Sweeney?"

She was watching him with such hope, such terrible longing, that he was forced to look away and focus solely on his hands, which still plucked pins from her mass of hair with a steady and determined rhythm as though his entire future depended on it.

"Old habits die hard," he offered in a mutter.

She released a sigh and nuzzled her head against his chest again. "That they do, love," she murmured into his skin. "That they do."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Well, here it is. The long-awaited moment. This is both my absolute favorite and my absolute least favorite chapter in this entire novel. I think it should be fairly apparent why.

Now more than ever, dear readers, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, even if you've never reviewed before. Writing love scenes always makes me a total Nervous Nellie (yes, pun intended).

Thank you, as always, for your continued support, love, critiques, ridiculously high number of story hits, etc.

Anonymous review replies:

_Dagheh_: (I'm just going to go ahead and respond to all of your reviews at once) LOL. I never meant to insult the Netherlands, m'dear! I chose the name "netherlands" not because of any relation to the -real world-, but for two simple reasons: 1) its literal meaning of "below" or "beneath," as in its location relative to Is, and 2) the connotations of something dark, mysterious, and not often spoken about.

I'm sorry for nearly making you cry in the Johanna bit. If it makes you feel any better, that was an emotional chapter for me too. Let's just say that it involved a few-too-many cups of coffee.

Killing your heart in a good way? Is that . . . even possible? Dead is dead is dead, and 'tis usually not a good thing. xD But thank you, I think. ;]

Anyway, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!

_Lily_: Thank you so much, love. I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter up, but I do hope that you enjoyed it!


	24. Splendors You Never Have Dreamed

_Sex isn't just friction and shallow fun. Sex is also the revenge on death. Don't forget death. Don't ever forget it. Yes, sex too is limited in its power. I know very well how limited. But tell me, what power is greater? – Philip Roth_

xxx

"Mr. Todd?"

"Hmm?"

"I was just wondering . . . do we have to keep ending up on the floor?" She shifted, burrowing deeper against his chest, smiling as she felt his arms tighten around her. "My back's in bad enough shape as it is. I get that there aren't many other options in my shop, but we could go elsewhere. I mean, I don't know if you've noticed, but the floor's not very comfortable."

"And I don't know if _you've_ noticed, Eleanor, but the cots on Is are barely big enough for one person, nevermind two."

Nellie grinned. "I'm sure we could find a way to fit, love."

He ignored this, and merely resumed braiding her hair.

"Mr. Todd?"

"Yes?"

"Did you expect me to come back?"

"What do you mean?"

"When I was on Earth for all those circles with Toby. Did you think I'd ever come back to Is?"

A hesitation.

"No," said Sweeney, very quietly.

Silence again.

"Mr. Todd?"

"What?"

"Did you miss me?"

"God, woman . . ."

"Well, did you?"

"I missed this," he growled in her ear, touching her in a place he never would have in public, and that was good enough for her. She knew her limits. If she pushed the man too far, he'd go running from her with his tail between his legs. And she couldn't have that again, not now – not when he was finally back where she had longed for him to be for so long.

His fingertips paused their braiding of her hair to massage her scalp. Pleasure tingled through her head and shot like opium through her veins, numbing and delighting her all at once. A low hum sounded in the back of her throat as she pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

_Nine circles._ That was how much time had passed since she and her Mr. Todd had again become lovers. Normally Nellie was dreadful at keeping track of circles. One always looked so much like the next, really, with no weather or calendar to help a soul tally each one. Now she counted each new circle with ease – with relish.

At first, she'd been scared of what their relationship would now be. She'd thought that nothing good could come of this. For God's sake, the man had murdered her. And she . . . she, too, was guilty ofhis murder, in a roundabout way. They had been each other's destruction. Entering into a relationship with him again – any sort of relationship – had frightened her beyond measure.

Her body couldn't die twice, but her heart could.

Yet she couldn't deny she wanted it – him – more than anything. She knew it would destroy the both of them to have anything of the sort, but –

_But . . ._

Weren't they already destroyed?

So this – this resuming of what they had once had on Earth – this was fine. No, it wasn't fine. It was wonderful. Nellie Lovett had always taken Sweeney Todd however she could, no matter how personal or distant, how physical or emotional, how beautiful or damaged. Anything was better than nothing. And this was far more than nothing. He was offering her his trust, however wavering and punctured it might be. He was letting her in again.

"Mr. Todd?"

"Hmm?"

"Y'know, I've been thinking – "

"Have you?" he drawled.

" – _I've been thinking_," she repeated, swatting his shoulder, "and I think we should go do something fun."

"Fun," he echoed in a slow monotone, as though he were a young child beginning to widen his vocabulary.

"Yes. Fun. Y'know, enjoyable. Things where people smile and laugh and what-have-you. A foreign concept to you, I realize, but I think we could both use it. Life on Is can get so hum-drum. But I was talking to Lorraine the other circle, and she was telling me about all these different community events that're always going on. We could go attend a play, for example, or a concert or sporting event . . ."

"Sounds delightful."

"Now, Mr. T, there's no need to take on that sarcastic tone. It would be fun."

"Don't you remember what happened last time you wanted to go have 'fun,' pet?"

Well. Last time she wanted to have fun, they'd attended a wedding, enjoyed themselves, and she'd subsequently become overwhelmed with guilt and rushed to Earth to see what had become to Toby. She had then been discovered by Sweeney, shown the location of her boy, taken back to Is, fought with Sweeney, returned to Earth in defeat, picked herself back up, and resumed an affair with her barber. Yes, she would say that she remembered quite well.

"This's different," said Nellie stoutly. "None of that would happen again. I'm different now." _We're different. _"Besides, did y'know that in twenty circles, there's some sort of Is holiday? Heard a few of my customers chattering about it earlier. Didn't know that they had holidays and national – erm, worldwide – or I guess spiritwide – oh, hell, I didn't know they had things like that in the afterlife. Anyway, it sounds like it's going to be some sort of harvest festival – and I want to go."

"Hmm," he said, unconvinced.

Bloody impossible man. All she wanted was to add a little vivacity to their circles, for him to socialize and be happy for once. No, it hadn't ever worked when they were alive . . . but, well, things were different now. He'd finally accepted her back into his existence, for one. No reason why other changes weren't impossible too.

"Mr. Todd?"

"_What_, Eleanor?" he snapped, clearly annoyed at how she continued to talk when he desired silence.

She smiled. She didn't actually have anything to ask. She just liked being able to hear his voice again.

"Nothing, love," she said, eyes drifting shut, lips still curved upward. "Sorry."

xxx

"_We rode on the troika with all bells a-ringing,"_ Anatoly sang as he flipped the shop sign to 'closed' for the circle, _"and little lights were blinking from afar . . ."_

Eloise giggled and began to dance.

Nellie raised her eyebrows. "What's gotten into you, love?"

"_Oh, if only I could be with you now,"_ he continued to croon, taking Eloise's hand and spinning her in a circle, _"to free my soul from the longing . . ."_ He looked up at Nellie with smiling eyes.

"I don't even know what the hell a troika is," said Nellie, turning her back on them to start on pies for the next circle, ignoring the way her stomach was jumping around.

"It's a horse-drawn carriage. That's a translation of an old Russian song we used to sing, but 'horse-drawn carriage' simply does not fit into the song's syllables, so I left that word as is."

"I like it," declared Eloise. "It's a pretty tune and the words are nice – and it fits Mrs. Lovett very well today."

"For the past seven circles, I think, actually," Anatoly replied.

_Nine._

"I haven't a clue what you're on about," Nellie informed them, slamming her rolling pin into the dough.

"Yes, you do," Eloise chirped. "It's Mr. Todd, isn't it?"

She dropped the rolling pin: it hit her foot and she swore. "No, of course not."

"I told you," said Eloise to Anatoly, as though the world had been turned on its head and 'no' now meant 'yes.' "Oh, this is so exciting, Mrs. Lovett! I always thought this would happen. You like him a lot, and Mr. Todd may not ever say all that much but I can tell that he likes you too. Are you courting now?"

_We're a bit past formalities such as that, actually._

"Alright," Nellie sighed as she snatched the rolling pin from the floor, "since you two're so smart . . . yes, it's Mr. Todd that's got me all distracted lately. What gave me away? No one else seems to've cottoned on."

"The look on your face," said Eloise.

"I recognized it as the one I used to have," Anatoly murmured. "When I was alive and with her."

"Your girl'll come to Is someday, dear, and then you'll be together again," Nellie assured him, even though she believed no such thing and he knew perfectly well that she didn't.

"I know she will," said Anatoly with a smile. "But we're not talking about me right now, Mrs. Lovett."

Nellie shook her head. "There's nothing further to say about _me_."

"Of course there is," said Eloise with all the tact and interest in romance of any ten-year-old girl. "Have you and Mr. Todd been courting since he found out that you'd returned to Is? I think you have been, because after I told him you were back and weren't very happy, you were suddenly a lot happier the next circle. So was he, actually. What do you two do when you go out? Is he a real gentleman? When are you going to be married?"

Nellie nearly dropped her rolling again. "Alright, loves, I think that's quite enough questions for one circle – "

"But you haven't answered any of them," Eloise replied cheekily.

Nellie turned around and made shooing motions with her hands, suppressing the urge to laugh. "Out of here, both of you. Go home."

"Very well," said Anatoly, fighting a smirk. "Enjoy your evening with Mr. Todd."

But Nellie did not go immediately to Sweeney's shop, but instead to Barsid Sajemgi's office. She had business to attend to before she could focus on dinner.

"Eleanor," Barsid exclaimed as she opened his office door, eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. He sat behind his desk opposite two other souls – a man and woman – who had turned around in their chairs to peer at her. Both wore identical expressions of perplexity.

_Shit._ She'd walked in on two souls who'd just arrived upon Is.

"This isn't really a good time, my dear," said Barsid. "Could we perhaps talk in around thirty points?"

"Oh – yes – I'm sorry – I'll come back later."

Mortified, Nellie backed out and shut the door, the faces of the two new souls still burned into her retinas. Poor darlings. It seemed like eons ago – _might well _be _eons for all you know_ – that she had died, but she still remembered all too well the consuming disorientation and confusion that she'd felt. And for her to barge in on such an emotional moment . . .

She sat herself down on the floor next to Barsid's office door, leaning her back against the wall. Eventually, the door beside her opened, and out came Barsid and the two other souls. The woman's face was buried in the shoulder of the man. Barsid, with comforting hands on both of their backs, led them to the end of the hallway. After sending the newly-dead spirits on their way with Akello – the man she recognized as the one who'd guided she and Sweeney to their rooms after their deaths – Barsid strolled back to her. She got to her feet and followed him into his office.

"It's been a while, Eleanor," said Barsid as he shut the door, the usual amiable smile settling on his features.

"I've got something I need to ask you," said Nellie. She didn't have time to beat around the bush. All she wanted were answers. Getting them through Barsid wasn't ideal by any means, but he was the only Is officer she had any amount of trust invested in.

He sat behind his desk and spread his hands. "By all means – ask away."

Nellie drew in a breath through her nose before blurting out, "I've been to Earth."

Barsid tilted his head. "Everyone on Is has been to Earth, Eleanor. We all lived there before we passed on – "

"I mean I've been there since my death." Barsid's smile dimmed. "Several times. And you can punish me if you like, I don't care, but I'm not going to any sort of jail or taking on a public service role or whatever until you've answered my question. I'm tired of no one telling me the truth and I'll be damned if I don't find out at least this."

Barsid's grin was gone, but he was still listening. "So – the question?"

Nellie expelled a long sigh as she sank into one of the wood chairs on the other side of Barsid's desk. "Still got a bit more background to tell you before I can get to the question, actually. See, the first time I went to Earth, it was 'cause Mr. Todd'd gone missing, and I thought he might be there. And at first I had no idea at all where to look for him, but then I . . . around my middle . . ." Was it her imagination, or had Barsid's eyebrows drawn together ever so slightly? "Well, it felt like someone had tied a rope around my waist and was pulling me forward. Eventually this invisible pull led me to Mr. Todd.

"And then – then I felt it when I was on Earth again – except it was different, and it was only recently that I connected the two – or maybe there isn't a connection, I don't know, but I think there must be . . . but as I was walking, out of the blue something very heavy settled in my stomach. Like a dozen heavy rocks or – or babies. Every step I took after that required so much effort. And shortly after – Mr. Todd, he'd been looking for me – and he found me."

Nellie fell silent and waited. Barsid, however, only looked at her, that same little crease between his eyebrows in place.

"Well?" she burst out. "You going to tell me or not? I know you know what this is about."

A gleam appeared in his gaze, though the wrinkle in his forehead remained. "And how do you know that I know what this is about?"

Nellie chuckled. She could pick up on a lie better than anyone – dead _or _alive – by now. "I can see it in your eyes, love."

Barsid's grew serious again. He braided his hands together and drummed his fingers against his knuckles. "Yes, you're right. But it's been a long time since such an occurrence . . . it isn't a common happening . . ."

"So what happened?" Nellie leaned forward. "Is it some spirit mind ability to find people that you're searching for? 'Cause it didn't seem to work when I was looking for someone who was still living. Does it only work on Earth? Can it work for objects too – like if I really wanted to buy some particular item, or if I couldn't find my hair brush? And it is possible to – "

Barsid held up a hand for her to be quiet, and she obliged. "Eleanor, I will tell you all that I know. You deserve to know the truth." Her stomach lurched in coalescing excitement and guilt. "But it would be easier if you were silent."

"Right. Sorry. Go on."

"Thank you. As I said, this isn't something that I hear of often. But it is what we call a semper." The familiar smile pulled tentatively at the corners of his lips. "And it appears that you and Mr. Todd have one."

"A semper? Is that word s'posed to mean something to me?"

"It is the word we use when two souls share a . . . well, shall we say a connection. A bond that goes far deeper than can be put into words."

Nellie snorted. "What, like true love or some rubbish? 'Cause I can tell you right now, Barsid dear, there's about as much love between Mr. Todd and me as there is between a lion and a wolf – "

"I didn't say true love," said Barsid delicately, "I said a deep connection. And might I add, Eleanor, that you are continuing to interrupt." Nellie crossed her arms and leaned back into her chair. "In answer to some of your previous questions – yes, it only works for those who are dead. No, it does not only work on Earth. And no, it cannot happen between a person and an object – it can only happen between certain people. If you were to go searching for me, for example, you would not be able to find me by use of this – what did you call it? – an invisible rope. You and Todd, however, share a semper, and so – "

"I don't want to have any sort of 'deep connection' with that man."

Barsid grinned. "Wants don't matter where matters of the spirit and heart are concerned, my dear."

"Heart?" she fired back. "This's got nothing to do with hearts."

Nellie knew she sounded ridiculous – she'd always love Sweeney Todd more than anything, and she'd long ago admitted that to herself – but to have her feelings reciprocated? There was no chance in hell. She knew Sweeney didn't love her as well as she knew that she loved him . . . perhaps more. She'd come here to find out the truth, not more lies.

"All I mean is," she went on, "Mr. Todd's not in love with me."

"As I said, this connection does not have to be love. Sometimes there is a tie that is stronger than love – that, if you will, transcends love. It is not true love, it is not fate – it is something two souls create themselves, even if they never become aware of this creation."

Nellie still wasn't sure if she believed Barsid. On the other hand, she could tell that he believed what he spoke. To object to his words would be a waste of time; if he thought them to be truth, he clearly didn't know the real truth.

"So how do these semper thingies work?" she inquired.

His smile spread. "It is what it is. I simply can't give you any logical explanation for it."

She flicked a stray curl out of her eyes. "Right. 'Course not."

He leaned towards her. "But does love of any kind always need a logical explanation, my dear?"

She didn't answer.

"There is always some madness in love," Barsid continued. "But there is also always some reason in madness."

"What profound words," Nellie returned drily. "Has some philosopher said them before?"

His teeth gleamed. "Not yet."

Whatever the hell _that_ meant. Nellie sighed and rose to her feet. "Well, thanks kindly for your time, Barsid. I'll be on my way now."

Barsid stood up. "Good-bye, Eleanor. Thank you for coming to see me. Feel free to stop by anytime – preferably during my breaks from work, when I'm not with newly arrived souls."

Her lips twisted as she headed towards the door. "Duly noted. 'Bye, love."

"If I may?"

She turned around to face him again. "What?"

Barsid took a step towards her. "I just wanted to know if you were alright."

Her lips tugged into a grimace. "Look, love, I appreciate how you're always coming round to my shop and room – "

He lifted an eyebrow. "I don't believe I come _that_ often – "

" – and how concerned you always are 'bout me, but it really gets rather tiresome."

"It's tiresome for a friend to occasionally pay you a visit?"

Nellie planted her hands on her hips. "Let's be frank, love. We're not friends and we never have been. Whenever you come to see me, it's 'cause you have something to ask me, or you need a favor – or you just want to be annoying."

"So I'm not allowed to be concerned?"

She was about to snap back a retort but stopped herself.

"No," she said quietly. "You're allowed to. More than allowed to – I appreciate that someone cares." He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "I'm sorry," she added.

"Don't be," he said simply, and held out his hand towards her, palm down. She stared at him and he, in turn, frowned. "I overheard recently that this is how Westerners greet one another . . .?"

That drew a laugh from Nellie despite herself. "Dunno where you got that hearsay, but it looks more like this." She demonstrated how to shake hands with someone then left, and she didn't realize she was smiling until Sweeney asked her over dinner why her mouth was wearing that ridiculous grin.

xxx

"Good evening, Mr. Barker."

"Todd," Sweeney corrected on reflex, and then glanced up from his pottery wheel, befuddled, as he recognized her voice.

Officer Reyna Lovett smiled down at him. "You have quite the collection of pots and sculptures here. No wonder your establishment is so popular."

Sweeney inclined his head in thanks, ceasing the motion of his potter's wheel. What was Reyna doing in his shop? It was always he who visited her. It had not been the other way around since the circle that she'd first convinced him to leave his room.

When he peered up again, Reyna stood several feet away, admiring a row of flower vases. "Albert and I have been needing another place to put our flowers," she said as she lifted an oblong pot into her hands. Focus no longer captured by his potter's wheel, Sweeney realized that it was after chords: his shop had shut twenty points ago. He and Reyna were the only ones here.

"We both love flowers," Reyna went on, replacing the vase upon its shelf and drifting over to another, "but couldn't afford them often while alive, so now we usually overindulge ourselves. I suppose I shouldn't encourage our gluttony with another flower pot, but yours are so lovely . . ."

He eyed her, one eyebrow raised as he traced his fingers around the grooves of his pottery wheel, not believing for a moment that she had come simply to buy a vase.

Sensing his gaze upon her, Reyna turned to him, smiling expectantly, waiting for him to speak aloud the words she already knew he was thinking but didn't want to ask. He frowned: she was unfortunately and strangely akin to the sister-in-law she had never met until after death.

"Is that all you want?" he asked, carefully.

Her grin widened. "Why, Mr. Barker – "

"Todd."

" – have you really forgotten? I realize it's been perhaps three Earth months since you came by my office – but I thought you would still be keeping track of the elapsed time as best you could."

He looked at her, waiting, drawing aimless designs on his potter's wheel.

Her eyes glimmered like brown stars as she announced, "Today marks two Earth years since we made our bargain."

His hands clamped around the edges of his wheel.

"You have done your best to learn how to live in the hereafter." Her tone was buoyantly sincere, her face radiant, the way he remembered the rare London sun being. "You have much still to learn, of course – but don't we all? You have still upheld your end of our promise. It is time for me to uphold my end and terminate your soul."

"I thought you didn't want me to end my existence," he said, when he rediscovered the ability of speech.

"I don't."

"Then why are you here? Why are you telling me this?"

The smile faded. "Because, thoughts and beliefs aside, I am always true to my word, Mr. Barker."

_("now, I never lied")_

"I told you I would take you to the fires and destroy your spirit if you tried to exist, rather than simply dwell, upon Is for two years. That does not mean that I want to – but I have before, with others . . . and I will for you, too."

To annihilate his soul. To end this pathetic imitation of life. It was all he had wanted since arriving here, since refusing to be resigned to Lucy never arriving on is (but still secretly resigned – knowing it to be true, hating it to be true but knowing it anyway – trying to find her room every damn circle despite knowing he never would). It was all that he, he who did not believe in wishes or hopes or dreams

"_oh, don't be silly, love – we all have dreams while we sleep"_

dared to fantasize about.

"_Not I," he asserts._

"_Nonsense," she chastises, curls capering across his face as she rolls them over, his back pinned to the mattress instead of hers. They hardly fit, these Is mattresses are so small, and for a moment he fears she'll topple them both right onto the floor, but she doesn't. She grins down at him like a proud lioness over her freshly captured meal. "'S'not possible not to have any dreams. Everyone does."_

_He scowls up at her. "Everyone, hmm? Since when are you an expert on humanity?"_

"_Since when are you?" she snips back. She straddles his torso, chortling, as he struggles to flip them both over. " 'They all deserve to die,' 'all people're filled with shit,' blah blah blah. Well, I want to tell _you_ something 'bout all people, Mr. Sweeney Todd – and that is that all people dream." She leans down and props her elbows on his chest, resting her chin against her palms, eyes twinkling. "So what d'you dream about at night, love?"_

"_Nothing."_

_She blows out a great sigh through her lips. "Honestly, Mr. T, didn't you hear a word I just said? Everyone dreams when they fall asleep, it's just ain't possible not to – " _

"_Then I suppose I am the exception that proves the rule."_

"_Bloody impossible man," she grumbles, but she shrieks with laughter as he begins to tickle her sides. He grins triumphantly as he rolls them both over, pressing her backside to the cot instead of hers, he hovering above. _

_The lioness has been conquested. _

"I will end your existence if you still desire it to be ended, that is," said Reyna quietly.

He looked up at her, blinking, squinting, as though seeing through a mirage created by heat waves. He didn't answer her – he didn't have the words to answer her . . . or any words at all, for that matter.

"You don't have to reply right this point," she told him. "You don't need to decide right now. I won't go anywhere no matter when – or what – you answer. Good evening, Mr. Barker – take care."

Nodding her head once, she moved towards the wall, but stopped when she heard him call out to her. He did not know where the call came from, but neither – for some inexplicable reason – did he care:

"The answer is no," he told Reyna.

_Then she grins up at him, mirroring his smile of victory, and he has to wonder if he truly conquested her – or if it's the other way around – or if perhaps, somehow, they both can be victors . . ._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** You guys. You guys. YOU GUYS. You broke 300 reviews. Yes. That's right. THREE HUNDRED. You are all awesome. Have I mentioned that lately? Because I mean it. Seriously. I never thought my little baby would be so well-loved.

Please forgive the delay in getting this chapter posted. Seeing as it's now summer, I'm hoping to update a little faster over the next three months.

Anywho. Reviews are, and shall always remain, love.

Anonymous review replies:

_thelovelyflorencelovett_: Why, hello there, new reader! Thank you so much for checking out my story, and welcome to the crazy territory of my mind. ;] I do hope you continue to enjoy your stay!

_Noodlemantra_: I'm glad to hear that you enjoyed the chapter so much, and thanks for leaving your thoughts!


	25. The Perfect Fit

_Death is as necessary for man's growth as life itself. – __Mohandas Gandhi_

xxx

"Didn't I tell you we'd both fit on these here Is, mattresses?"

"Eleanor."

"What? I did, didn't I? Of course, like usual, you didn't believe me and just scoffed – and, like usual, I was right."

"Eleanor . . ."

"Well, you know that I'm right. I mean, it is a bit cramped, but it's doable, eh? I s'pose we could buy a bigger bed, actually, if we wanted to. It'd take up more space and probably make it harder to get around these little bedrooms, but I've seen bigger beds available in some spirits' shops – "

"_Eleanor."_

"Don't you 'Eleanor' me," she grumbled, but fell silent nonetheless.

He smirked and allowed his eyes to close, fingers drifting across her lower back, content to be inanimate not just in body, but in mind. It was a rare feeling, one he had lost since his death, since those few moments on Earth when he had been able to almost forget. It was a feeling he did not want to lose again.

"Mr. Todd?"

He sighed. Could she never be content with inanimation too?

"I was just wondering if you'd seen Turpin lately." Her face was pressed into his shoulder, muffling her voice; her lips moved against his skin as she spoke. "If he's still hanging about and bothering you."

"He still shows up to my art classes."

"Well, just try not to pay him any mind, I guess. Eventually he'll give up and leave us alone."

He rapped his fingertips upon her spine, impatient to have this conversation end, wary because he could tell from her tone that she was merely warming up to another topic. "That's always my strategy, pet."

"Mmm." She paused to shift her position, turning herself sideways to press her cheek against his chest, her muscles forcefully relaxed against his. "What about Lucy?"

His body tautened. "What about her?"

"Still looking for her?" she asked, her voice determinedly calm, indifferent to his answer.

"Yes," said Sweeney.

"Well," she said, tone still serene, but she couldn't disguise her swallow as her throat muscles rippled against his torso, "well. I won't judge any longer. You'll do as you must, I guess."

He refused to open his eyes and look at her. He already knew what he would see – slightly parted lips, unlined brow, wide and dry eyes, expression completely open and untearful, undefeated, still fighting for a cause that he was no longer sure of – and yet to see the expression manifest . . . he could not.

"You can't have thought this would change who I am," he muttered.

"No," she whispered, "I didn't." He felt her knuckles graze across his cheek before pulling away. The weight on the cot shifted then decreased as she lifted herself to her feet. He opened her eyes as she began gathering her wrinkled clothes in her arms. "But I did dare to think it'd change who we are."

He watched as she redonned her clothes: lacing up undergarments, squinting at buttons, jerking at strings. Nothing ever changed. People always remained who they were; people were always cruel to each other, selfish to their own needs and causes; people were always themselves. Death was just a continuation of life. Surely she knew that by now.

He watched her callused hands struggle to pull her corset too tight against her ribcage, her breathing straining, her jaws clenching in pain, but her hands still pulling, still trying, still determined to make a fit out of something that simply did not fit.

No, he realized. She would never know it. She would always believe that a fit was still possible.

xxx

"Isn't it frustrating how we don't get any of the more useful supernatural powers? I mean, honestly. Being dead's got to have a few perks 'sides from walking through walls. It'd be so handy if we could just repair broken things with a snap of our wrist, or summon objects out of thin air, or some suchlike. No more pointless manual labor."

"Without manual labor, there would be no time for inward reflection," Sweeney drawled sardonically.

"People'd get to stop moving and relax, though," persisted Eleanor as she swept up the shards of her mirror from her floor. "As they're s'posed to when they're dead, mind you."

Sweeney, lying supine atop her mattress, turned his head in her direction. "Pet, you're always moving because you don't know _how _to relax."

"No, it's 'cause there's always work to be done," she retorted, putting the broom and dustpan to the side and kneeling down on the floor. "You going to help me wipe up your blood or not?"

Rolling his eyes, he got down on his knees across from her. Eleanor dipped two rags into a bucket of water, wrung them both out, then handed one to him. They both began to scrub at the blood flecked across her stone floor.

He considered asking why she had not sponged up this blood earlier, for blood was far easier to clean up while wet; she knew that as well as he did. He considered asking too how her mirror had shattered – for though he recalled punching it, that had not caused it to splinter into thousands of shards – and why its remains had not been cleared away either.

But he did not ask. He did not ask because he was not sure that he wanted to hear the answer spoken aloud, an answer that shone in her eyes, scared and grateful, each time she glanced at him: that despite her desire to move on, she couldn't. That at the time, she couldn't let go of the last bit of him she still possessed, lest he depart and leave her with nothing again.

"Couldn't we clean this up after the festival?" he asked instead, chafing his linen across the ground.

She raised her head as a grin spread over her lips. "I thought you didn't want to go to the festival," she teased.

He frowned down at the spot of blood that he was scrubbing at: damn thing wouldn't come out. "I don't want to go."

"But you want me to go," she said, waggling her eyebrows. "You want me to be happy."

"No," he grumbled, scowling at the unflinching crimson stain: how many circles had it been since he'd smashed his fist against the mirror and received only bloody knuckles in return? How long had this blood been allowed to dry? "I'm just being practical. The fair's already started."

She snickered, the grin still stamped across her mouth. "As you say, love. Well, I s'pose you're right – might just make more sense to clean this up later. One more circle's not going to make a difference at this point."

Tossing her rag across the bucket, she got to her feet and traipsed towards her tulipwood wardrobe (her business really was doing quite well; he did not remember her owning this dresser), stripping lazily down to her unmentionables as she went. Opening the bureau, she pulled out her red satin dress, the dress she had not worn since the wedding – since everything had spiraled out of control – a tangible reminder of what they could never escape . . .

He frowned at the gown. "Is a harvest celebration really cause for such formal wear?"

This wasn't really what he wanted to ask, and Eleanor Lovett seemed to know that from the way she glared at him. "Well," she said, stepping into the mountainous pooled skirts of her dress, "when else do I ever get to wear this? It's a perfectly lovely dress and there just aren't many occasions for a lady to put it on. Besides – no time like the present, eh?"

"We've nothing but time in the afterlife," he muttered.

"Oh, stop your grumbling and help me lace this up."

Rolling his eyes, Sweeney stood and meandered over to her to tie the back of her dress, neither of them mentioning that she was perfectly capable of lacing the dress herself.

"Aren't you going to change too?" she asked, assessing him with critical eyes as she looped a red ribbon around her sloppy bun. "And you can't honestly tell me that you're not even going to comb your hair or wash your hands – for God's sake, Mr. T, y'can't celebrate a holiday with clay underneath your fingernails – and let's not even talk about how your suit's gone all rumpled from you just stuffing it 'neath your bed rather than buying a proper wardrobe . . ."

Another fifteen points went by before she finally deemed him acceptable to be seen by the public. Twining their arms together, they meandered down the corridors, following the other dressed up spirits for countless points until they finally arrived at the farming district.

"Ohhhh," Eleanor gushed in his ear when they stepped inside. "I come here lots to buy supplies for my pies and experiment with new fruits – but I've never seen it all dolled up like this! Oh, gosh, it's so impressive, isn't it?"

The farming district of Is was impressive on any circle – even Sweeney Todd, the permanently unimpressionable man, had to admit that. Like farms upon Earth, thousands of crops stretched out in perfect lines, growing and plentiful; like everything upon Is, the space was endless, reaching out further than the human eye could ever hope to discern. Foods from all over the world flourished, side by side, as naturally as if they always shared the same soil. There were rows of sprouts, stalks, trees, vines; there were pigments of green, yellow, red, purple, blue, orange; there were fruits, vegetables, grains. And yet it was unmistakably not part of the nethers, unmistakably belonged to the main parts of Is, for the colors were normal and no sky fanned above the room, simply the same monotony of cobbled stones. With so much color and life blooming everywhere, though, the gray ceiling and walls were forever tainted rainbow.

Typically – as Sweeney knew only from that murky period of his first circles upon Is, when he had sat in his room, unknowing and uncaring – the farming area was a fairly mellow place. Cultivators milled about, leisured but purposeful, tilling the soil, planting seeds, harvesting foodstuffs.

Today, the scene was anything but mellow. Holidays, like weddings, were apparently incredibly popular occasions where the grand majority of the Is population showed up. Spirits were everywhere, clumped in pockets of twos and tens and twenty dozens: dancing, talking, eating, performing strange rituals that he'd never seen before and could not make heads or tails of.

Eleanor dragged him away from the wall and towards the nearest thicket of souls. A cherub-faced woman, dressed lavishly in purple velvets and diamond jewels, stood atop a cart laden with wheat stalks. _"Trowel the black bowl to me_," she was singing, _"hey derry derry, with a poupe and a lerry . . ."_

"_Hooky, hooky,"_ the onlookers chimed in, _"we have shown . . ."_

"Let's get closer and join in," said Eleanor, grinning, pulling at him.

Sweeney raised his eyebrow without comment. Just because the view was impressive didn't mean that he wanted to become a part of it. She had hauled him here without his permission, he took no enjoyment out of these sorts of silly peasant affairs, and he was certainly not going to aid her in pretending any differently.

She scowled at him. "Well, nevermind, then. We'll just find something else to do – 's'not like they're lacking in things to do here."

"Two bits talent only!" cried an Oriental man in broken English as they approached the next cluster of souls. He held out a tray of pastries, enticing customers with the smell; a dozen baskets filled with more of the goods sat by his feet. "Mooncakes, two talents only!"

"Oh," said Eleanor, tapping at his arm, "that looks delicious too – so many different foods here, I'll never get over – "

"_Ponggalo Ponggal!"_ two dozen spirits cheered from several feet away.

Like an overexcited child on their birthday – too eager to open each and every gift to properly enjoy a single one – she immediately began to caper towards the noise, turned around and rushed back towards the Oriental man to purchase a mooncake, then danced again towards the next group just as a copper-skinned fellow blew into a conch and the people around him cheered. They were all gathered around a vessel bubbling fresh milk, not seeming to care that much of it was slopping over the edges as they tossed in freshly harvested rice.

Eleanor tugged at his arm, pulling him from ritual to ritual: a group of younger spirits holding turnips and begging sweets off their elders; grinning men beating out a rhythm upon drums at their waists, the straps slung over their shoulders; a heavily draped woman peeling apples, tossing the skins over her shoulder, then exclaiming in a foreign tongue of her findings; a score of souls dressed all in white with their faces blackened beyond recognition; a knot of people erecting a temporary, tiny frame of a house and draping it with branches and fruits.

The pair observed each scene without participating in any. This was fine by Sweeney. This was what bound them together, after all – their desire to observe, to sneer, to ridicule the pointless cruelty of the disguised savages around them – their desire for isolation, despite her pretense of loving her fellow humans – their desire to stand apart from it all. Their refusal to admit they were no less pointless or cruel. It was how they existed, the two of them, a whole world of holidays and celebrations and plays and concerts and other stupidities right outside the door of their blissful solitude.

Yet tonight, Eleanor seemed to want to participate. Her glare narrowed even further with each rite that he cocked an eyebrow at. He couldn't fathom her behavior. Yes, she had spoken of her desire to move on some circles ago, but hadn't they both realized moving on was not truly possible? That it was only possible to revert back to what things had once been, but never progress further?

What he could fathom even less was how she didn't protest whatsoever to his refusals. She had certainly never paid his scowls or eye rolls any mind while they still dwelt on Earth, barging on ahead with whatever she had planned regardless of his obstinacy. Was she no longer able to fight him? Or did she just no longer want to?

"Why, Mr. Todd! How lovely to see you here."

Sweeney's jaws clamped together.

Eleanor spun towards the owner of the voice; knotted as their arms were together, he was forced to turn as well.

"Oh!" exclaimed Griselda Mooney, her eyebrows meeting her hairline. "Why – good evening, Mrs. Lovett. I did not know you were here. My condolences – regarding your death, I mean."

"Mine as well for yours," said Eleanor stiffly.

"Though this certainly explains why my customers have decreased so much over the past year or so on Is," said Griselda with a tentative grin. "You always were a worthy rival, dear."

Eleanor also pulled her mouth into a smile, her lips twitching.

"So this is your wife, then, Mr. Todd?" said Griselda; Eleanor's hands crushed so hard against the flesh of his arm that they nearly embraced bone. "Well, I suppose you're not aware, but Mrs. Lovett and I knew each other on Earth – always a temperamental thing" – she grinned at Eleanor, a bit more genuinely – "but always a kind soul, too. Helped me out of several tight spots, like coming down with consumption, or when I was living off nothing but ale for four days. . . ." Her eyes glittered upon his – no longer flirting, as they usually were when they gleamed, but approving, pleased. "She's certainly worthy of your affections."

Sweeney couldn't reply.

"Well, thanks very kindly, love," said Eleanor, beaming, as she extended her hand for a shake. "Lovely to see you again."

The two women said their good-byes, then Griselda disappeared back into the crowds. Eleanor's grin morphed to a glower as she tilted her chin up towards his face, the lines of her face tight. Sweeney braced himself.

"Why the hell does Mrs. Mooney think we're married?" she demanded.

Sweeney shrugged. "Who can say?" _He_ certainly couldn't say that he'd told Griselda he was married after she'd tried to dally with him one too many times; he didn't want Eleanor upset, not now that things were finally easy and simple between them, the way they once had been.

The scowl remained upon her face as she tightened her arm around his and pulled him off towards the next gaggle of souls. "Mrs. Mooney's a stupid thing, but she doesn't decide people are married for absolutely no reason, Mr. Todd."

"_We have it! We have it! We have it!"_

Sweeney became paralyzed.

"Did you know she was here?" Eleanor wanted to know, her arm still snaked around his and jostling his now inanimate body forward: she was surprisingly strong sometimes. And surprisingly oblivious to the owner of the booming voice several yards away from them, drawer closer with her every harried footfall. "On Is, I mean? 'S'obviously not the first time you two've spoken – "

"_What have yee?"_ chorused the crowd in return. _"What have yee?"_

" – but she doesn't seem to've made the connection that you used to live just a few roads down from her, so I'm guessing you didn't meet on Earth – "

"_A neck! A neck! A neck!"_ thundered the reply.

" – though why you would've told her we were married is entirely beyond me seeing as – " she paused and shook his slack arm " – you even listening to me, you fool?!"

"_Hurrah!"_ shouted the mob. _"Hurrah for the neck! Hurrah for Mr. Turpin!"_

Eleanor's mouth fell open and her feet came grinding to a halt, her ire forgotten. She jerked her head towards the gathering she had blindly towed the both of them towards: several dozen souls stood circled together in the midst of the corn field. In their center, holding a scythe in one hand and a stalk of corn in his other, his mouth smiling, his body donned in worn trousers and a dirt-smudged shirt, stood Judge Turpin.

"Of course," Eleanor muttered, "always comes back to the bloody ol' judge, doesn't it? Nevermind, dear." She tugged at Sweeney's arms, urging him forward. His feet remained stagnant, but she managed to resume dragging him along anyway. "Just nevermind him. If we leave him be, then he'll eventually just leave us be."

She was, however, forced to eat her words: they had gone not even three steps when Turpin appeared in their path, his corn and scythe having been passed onto another farmer, his smile still playing at his lips.

"Now what d'you want?" Eleanor demanded.

"Good evening, Mrs. Lovett, Mr. Todd. It is a pleasure to see you again as well."

Turpin reached his arm out, took Eleanor's hand in his own, and brought it to his lips.

Electricity bolted through Sweeney and returned his body to his own control in an instant: he jerked Eleanor towards himself – her fingers slipped from Turpin's – and Sweeney took a step forward.

Turpin's smile stretched languidly across his face. "I meant no harm, Mr. Todd."

"C'mon, love, take it easy – this here's a celebration, remember?" Eleanor soothed Sweeney, kneading his taut arm, but the fact that her eyes were pulled into distrusting slits and intent upon Turpin's was not lost on Sweeney – nor was it lost on him when she slipped her other arm around Sweeney's back and wiped her kissed hand on the fabric of his suit.

Sweeney forced himself to inhale, trying to recapture domain of his mind. He should be used to this by now. He should be used to dealing with Turpin. He should be able to see and speak to the former judge without every tendon in his body seizing, without his pulse thundering against his temples and stitching a haze of red in front of his eyes, without his fingers trembling with need.

"My apologies," said Turpin, bowing his head. "I did not mean to agitate either of you. I merely wanted to say hello."

"You want to say hello an awful lot," Sweeney growled, the words falling between his lips in another convulsion of his muscles; Eleanor dug her fingers into his arm.

"I enjoy your company," said Turpin, then added, as a smirking afterthought, "and your good manners."

Eleanor raked her eyes over him, eyebrow arcing as she observed his countenance: the beginnings of a hole on his left boot, the faded patches on the knees of his pants, the muddy color of his once-white shirt, the missing button at his collar, the smear of dirt across his right cheekbone. "So this is what you look like on the job," she drawled. "Never expected I'd see your honor in the thicket of any sort of daily grind."

Turpin spread his hands. Sweeney despised those hands – he could not look at those hands without being stampeded by images of those wrists flexing reverently towards unjust gavels, of those fingers dancing across Lucy's bare thighs – he could not look without remembering everything he could never forget, even without having seen it. Yet he noted, as he stared, that those hands that had once been smooth and unblemished by manual labor were now adorned by blisters and calluses.

"If there is anything I have learned about the afterlife, my dear," said Turpin, "it is to expect the unexpected."

Eleanor's right eyebrow lifted upward to meet her raised left. "You don't sound unhappy."

"Of course not. Why would I be? I enjoy being a farmer."

She giggled at that, and Sweeney felt his upper lip curl: the idea of Judge Alexander Turpin, the high and mighty dictator of the law, enjoying being deigned to a mere homesteader? It was purely laughable.

It was Turpin's turn to arc an eyebrow, his mouth no longer smiling but firm with conviction. "I'm quite serious. Being made to work as a horticulturalist for my 'community service' . . . well, it is certainly not a profession I would have chosen for myself – but seeing how provisions are harvested, partaking in its growth . . . it has made me appreciate both food and labor in a light I never had before."

Sweeney clamped his teeth together and swallowed, refusing to allow the bile rising up his throat to escape from his mouth. For God's sake, did he practice these sorts of speeches every circle? He darted his eyes to Eleanor who, to his pleasure, had her mouth pressed in such a thin line that her lips had nearly disappeared altogether.

Turpin clasped his blistered hands in front of him, folded palms resting against his stomach. "The vocation is all the more interesting in the hereafter too, I think. I still cannot figure out if we receive the plants that failed to grow among the living, or if our seeds truly do generate their own vegetation, just as they do upon Earth, but either way, it is a fascinating subject – don't you agree?"

"You're pulling my leg," said Eleanor flatly.

"No," said Turpin, quietly, his voice lost in the din of the festival around them, his words only decipherable from the shape of his lips, "I'm not."

"Oh, indeed? So you're a perfectly good and honest man now, eh?"

"I never said that, Mrs. Lovett. I have made just as many mistakes as the next man" – Sweeney couldn't suppress his snort; Turpin's eyes dived to him – "perhaps more. I am only human – but I attempt to honor goodness and honesty with my every action."

"_Tilgul ghya, god god bola,"_ said a man with high cheekbones and mused hair, appearing seemingly out of nowhere at Eleanor's shoulder; she jumped and gripped Sweeney's arm harder (any harder, he thought with a wince, and he'd have to amputate it from lack of circulation). The man pressed something into her palm, then took Sweeney's hand and placed one in his, before cantering over to Turpin. Sweeney unfurled his fingers: it was a little brown ball made of sesame seeds.

"Erm – sorry?" said Eleanor, smoothing over her face and flashing the man an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I don't know what that means . . ."

"Ahh," said the man, smiling in return. "Eat tilgul and talk sweet." At her befuddled expression, he elaborated, "Release bad feelings and hostilities of times gone by. Resolve to kind speak from here forth and stay friends."

Without another word, the man walked away, leaving Sweeney to only ponder how it seemed simply to be within an Is soul's nature to continuously meddle in his fellow spirits' existences.

"Well, I don't believe that I can expound any further upon that," said Turpin, presenting them both with a bow and popping the tilgul into his mouth. "Enjoy the festivities, Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lovett."

"Bastard," Eleanor mumbled as he left, though with not quite as much venom as usual.

Sweeney looked down at her. "Don't tell me you bought any of that."

"What?" she snapped. "Of what that dunce said? Jesus, Mr. T, y'think I'm daft? Not all the fancy words or benign smiles in the world could allow him to pretend he's anything other than what he is: a deceiving, dishonest, sadistic, perverted . . ."

Satisfied, Sweeney popped the tilgul into his mouth (it was pretty good, even if he would never follow the advice dashed alongside it) and listened to the beautiful string of adjectives falling from Eleanor's lips.

". . . inhuman, repulsive – oooh, Mr. T!" she squealed, pattering her fingers against his arm. "Look, they're crowning that woman over there Harvest Queen – she's got a crown fashioned from corn and everything – oh, isn't it delightful how they've got customs from every culture imaginable here, all thrown together like this? Let's go get a closer look – "

She lifted her chin up, her face shinning with enthusiasm that died the minute her sparkling eyes met his flat stare. "Well. Nevermind, then, you big grump."

Sweeney was again puzzled: why was she not putting up more of a fight and simply plowing forward with what she desired? Not that he minded, of course – it was nice to not be continually forced to do as he didn't please . . . it was strange, that was all.

"Well, I guess we should be off, then," she chirped, flashing him a grin, as though all were right in the world. "Been here quite a few chords already – the time just flew by, didn't it? How about we head back to my shop for a nightcap, eh?"

He murmured his assent and allowed her to weave the pair of them between the souls and the crops, at last finding a wall and stepping through it.

"Home sweet home," Eleanor muttered, unknotting their arms and trudging towards her alcohol cabinets. "What would you say to some strong port, eh, love? Or a spot of wine? No reason to always drink gin – the poor man's drink – now that we've got so much, after all."

He intended to reply, 'Port.' What he instead replied was, "I'll be back," and stepped backwards, right into the wall he'd just come from, thinking _Sweeney Todd's Art Gallery_ as he went.

He couldn't process why he was doing it, as his feet carried him across his shop and towards the far end of the room where he stashed the art pieces that were not ready to be sold, whether because a bit of clay had been chipped off or their veneer had not yet dried.

One bit of artwork stored over here, however, was finished. Had been for some time, in fact. Yet he had not been able to bring himself to sell it. He despised the piece more than anything he'd ever crafted, even more than his early, unsteady compositions – and yet he loved it more than anything he'd ever crafted, too.

The mind and the heart never worked as one.

_Or perhaps they do. Perhaps that's why._

He lifted it into his hands as gingerly as a babe, as intimately as his old silver friends. He wrapped it in the brown paper that he kept for those customers that feared accidentally breaking their purchases. Then – his mind beginning to beat against his body's actions but his hands steady around the swaddled sculpture – he stepped through the wall.

Eleanor sat at one of her shop tables, eyes closed, hunched over against her elbows with her head upon her hands. Two tumblers with generous portions were already upon the table. He glanced at the bottle upon its center: she'd chosen gin.

Her eyes opened as his feet clomped against the ground. "You came back," she said, without astonishment or expectation.

Sweeney felt stung. "I said I would, didn't I?" And she'd always believed that he would – even when he'd been deported to Australia, even when Lucy hadn't believed his promise to return – Eleanor Lovett believed he would. Believed in him.

Or had believed.

Her lips pulled into a wan smile. She shut her eyes again. "I've given up trusting anything that comes out of a human mouth. Don't take it personally, love – I'm including myself in that statement, too." She sighed, her face sinking deeper into her hands, her cheeks squishing up around her eye sockets. "People can't change – people can't move on from who they once were, because they'll always be that person . . ."

Sweeney frowned and sat down across from her. How much had she drunk while he was gone? He hadn't been in his shop more than five points. One glance at the bottle, however, told him that she was drunk on nothing but crushed dreams.

"Oh, we can delude ourselves for a while, sure," she went on, "but then you only start deluding yourself 'bout the fact that you're _not_ deluding yourself. But, of course, what else can we do? We've got to exist somehow, don't we? Can't accept the alternative. And even if it's not living, at least it's surviving . . . at least we're getting by . . ."

He couldn't listen to this; he cut her off, placing his wrapped sculpture on the table. "This is for you."

One eye opened and looked at him before flicking downward. Her other eye opened and she stared at the loose bundle of brown paper, transfixed. "You – you got me a gift?"

"Are you going to open it or just gape like a fish?" he grumbled.

She reached out her arms and took hold of the object, though her lips remained gently parted and her eyes glossy as though in a dream. She peeled back the paper at a painfully slow rate, scoch by scoch, like this too would be saved and cherished along with what actually sat inside. He rapped his fingers against the edge of the fettling knife in his pocket, impatient, as her finger meticulously stripped the paper away –

Until, finally, the sculpture was revealed.

It was his first – and probably last – sculpture to take on a human form. Its shape was no more than a suggestion of a woman. The curves of the body were wide and imprecise; there were no clothes, yet also no details of privates, and neither were there any features upon the face. Yet the wide, imprecise curves seemed deliberate, as though to capture a being that moved with loping ease and grace The figure was dancing: one leg swept behind the other in a waltz step, yet the arms ballooned outward in a gesture of vibrant defiance rather than docile deference, curved at the elbows as though to embrace life itself; the hair spilled over the shoulders in a waterfall, as inaccurately precise as the suggestion of the waist and breasts; the chin tilted upwards, making one see smiling lips and twinkling eyes upon the featureless face almost as vividly as though they were there.

It was a statue of her.

"Lammas Day," said Sweeney, thinking perhaps an explanation was needed, for Eleanor's hands had dropped into her lap and she was now immobile. His fingers drummed faster upon his blade: why was she sitting so still? Did she not like it? "An archaic harvest festival in some European countries – ours among them."

She remained silent, unmoving.

His foot joined in his hand, keeping a rapid counter rhythm beneath the table. "It used to be custom, on this day, for tenants to bring fresh wheat to their landlords."

Still no response.

His foot and fingers beat ever faster.

"Of course, I'm no longer your tenant – and never worked as a sharecropper – but you – but I . . . I wanted to participate in at least one tradition tonight – even if a sculpture's not – what it's meant to be, for this rote – "

Her fingers traced over the sculpture slowly, reverently, barely touching its surface, as though afraid to break it – as though it hadn't been cast in her image, as though it weren't solid and strong . . .

"It's perfect," she whispered, raising her eyes to his, and his hand and foot forgot how to move. "Love – my love – thank you."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I would like to give a special shout-out to one of my betas, the beautiful & talented beta Robynne (aka roberre, or, as she used to be known, Saime Joxxers). She is always an all-around fantastic beta, but her help with this chapter ended up being particularly invaluable. This chapter, in a nutshell, wouldn't exist without her; she really pushed me to think about how (after)life on Is functions outside of Nellie and Sweeney's little personal bubbles. Robynne, you're the best personal anthropologist a starving artist could ask for.

Okay. Enough with the sap. xD

Reviews are, and shall always be, love.

Anonymous review replies:

_Thelovelyflorencelovett_: I'm so happy to see that you've returned to read the new chapter! Thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_Lady Musket_: Haha, yes, I do write their every thought. But I am glad that it isn't boring. Sweeney and Nellie, bless them both, do a great deal of living inside their heads rather than outside; I felt it'd be dishonest to write them any differently.

Is all of Is made of corridors? LOL. You know, one of my lovely betas, Robynne, asked the very same thing after reading this fic. At the time, the answer was a very boring yes. xD Now, however, the answer is no . . . an answer that will be shown more in the next chapter (well, in the chapter that you just read. Whatever xD)!

Anyway, thank you so much for R-&-R-ing!

_Noodlemantra_: I'm glad you enjoyed the hair-braiding. For some reason, I've always had a particular fetish for scenes where Sweeney braids Nellie's hair. –shrug- xD Anyway, thank you for reviewing!


	26. We All Deserve To

_It is not death that alarms me, but dying. – __Michel de Montaigne_

xxx

_Knock knock knock!_

Sweeney grunted and rubbed a hand over his eyes, struggling to untangle himself from sleep. Who the hell would be knocking on his door? The only person who ever came by to see him was Eleanor, and she certainly never troubled with the formality of knocking. Besides, it was currently pumpkin – a completely unreasonable chord of the morning for any sort of visit.

_Knock knock knock!_

Heaving a sigh, Sweeney pulled himself out of bed and shuffled towards the door. He was greeted by a man he did not know.

"Benjamin?" The stranger's mouth parted in a cross between a smile and a gasp, further creasing the lines of an aged face. His hands sprang out towards Sweeney as though to embrace him, but pulled back at the last moment.

Sweeney's eyebrows drew together. He found himself reaching for the fettling knife on his nightstand, more out of habit than concern. The old man, thankfully, did not notice, for his eyes remained fastened on Sweeney's face.

"I prefer Todd, actually," said Sweeney. "Can I help you?"

"Todd . . .?" the man echoed, an expression of bafflement replacing the tattered happiness and heartache. "But no – you're definitely – I would know – you're changed, but I know – "

"I don't . . ."

The man reached out again until the fingers of his left hand brushed Sweeney's cheek. Sweeney was too shocked to jerk away.

The old man's dark eyes filled with tears as his mouth pronounced two simple syllables: "My Ben."

The fettling knife dropped from Sweeney's numb fingers and landed on the ground just before he was pulled into an embrace, his face pushed against graying hair. It smelled of leather and smoke, just as Sweeney had remembered, but the wiry locks had been a deep brown back then, like his own.

"Nineteen years," Matthew Barker, the father of Benjamin Barker, whispered. "Nineteen years since we . . ." He pulled away, but kept his hands upon Sweeney's shoulders, looking suddenly upset. "But you're so young – were you in prison when . . . when it happened?"

Sweeney forced the fingers on his left hand to flex, then his right hand, trying to recall the human ability of movement. "I . . ."

Recalling the ability of thought was even more difficult. After a moment, he realized that his father was asking when he had died. His father did not know he had ever returned to London. His father thought he had died in Botany Bay.

He usually did not bat an eye when telling the life story of Sweeney Todd. He had chatted up many customers with a half-fabricated history about himself – a clever weaving of lies and just enough truth to make the lies believable – lulling them into a sense of security, making them believe in Sweeney Todd, the friendly barber of Fleet Street. And yet now, he couldn't form his lips around the familiar tales. Lying to his father seemed different.

_All humans are filled with shit. He's no different._

And, true though this was, he couldn't shake away the sudden torrent of memories, blurry around the edges yet still blinding –

_his father regales them all at the dinner table with that day's mishap with the horses_

_strong hands tuck unruly curls behind his son's ear_

_tugs at his hand_

_a sandpapered voice reads a Grimm fairy-tale, its rhythmic flow beckoning him to sleep_

_throws back his head and laughs at his child's joke_

He could not tell the usual lies of Sweeney Todd's life to his father. He could not pretend that he had never been his Ben. It was not that he believed his father better than the masses; he had dirtied his hands as much as any other human. But that couldn't erase their blood ties. Whatever else could be said ill of him (and there could be things ill said of him – bad memories surfaced with the good), Matthew Barker had done everything he could for his family. He deserved more than his eldest son pretending as though they had never met.

He also deserved more than knowing the demon his son had shriveled into.

"Yes," said Sweeney. "I died in the colony."

It was true. Benjamin Barker had died in the colony. It was not false to withhold the fact that Sweeney Todd had risen from the remains.

_Dancing around the truth, eh, Todd? You're no better than her._

_No. This is different. It's better for him not to know._

_That was _her _reasoning too._

His father's fingers dug deeper into Sweeney's shoulders; Sweeney wanted to twist away from the grip but could not find the strength to do so. "Ben – I'm so sorry – "

Sweeney cut him off: "It isn't your fault I went to prison."

His father shook his head, gaze again moistening. "I could have done more to prevent you from being sent there had I known before. I didn't hear you'd been accused until after the trial. . . . All I ever wanted was to support my family, see my children out into the world and watch them lead successful lives – and I had come so close until – "

"Father." The word sounded strange on his lips. Sweeney took his father's hands and removed them from his shoulders, squeezing the fingers for a moment before letting them fall. "Not even the best testimony could have prevented me from being shipped off to Australia. The judge was determined to get rid of me no matter what those on my side said."

His father again grazed his fingers over Sweeney's cheek. Sweeney had not remembered him being so affectionate. When he strained through his memories, Matthew Barker was a reserved man: loving and supportive, but quiet, introverted.

"So young . . ." his father murmured.

Sweeney stepped back, away from his touch, pretending not to see the hurt flash through his father's eyes. "Not that young."

His father grimaced, curling the fingers that had rested upon Sweeney's face into a fist as he lowered his arm. "No parent wants to outlive their child."

Sweeney knelt down to retrieve his fettling knife from the ground. "I don't – mean to be impolite – but it's a little after pumpkin, and I have work tomorrow . . ." When he received only a blank stare in response, he continued, "Did you arrive on Is recently?"

"Just a few minutes ago, I think," his father replied, unintentionally revealing how green to Is he truly was with his use of the word minutes rather than points. "After that officer fellow went through an explanation of the afterlife, I made him scour the records for my family." His brow creased. "Seems you're the only one here."

"Actually, dear Doreen is here too," Sweeney tried to jest.

This earned a wan smile from his father. "Ah, yes, I saw that. My charming sister wasn't really high on my list of people to see again."

"She's the opposite of wine, unfortunately – only worsens with age."

His father laughed at that, and Sweeney managed an expression resembling a smile, but then an uncomfortable silence clouded over the moment of mirth.

"Well . . ." Sweeney fidgeted with his fettling knife. "As I started to say, it's currently after pumpkin, which is a chord in the very early morning here on Is."

"A – chord?"

"An hour, essentially. Technically speaking, time doesn't pass here. But the spirits here like to keep a semblance of normalcy."

"Oh, yes . . . I understand." From his expression, it was clear that his father did not understand. He would though, Sweeney knew, with time.

"Well, I suppose that's my cue to leave," said his father. "Should start adjusting to this schedule, I suppose . . ." He took a step backwards, considering his son with a tilted head. "I – Ben, I'd like to . . . do you want to have dinner together tomorrow evening?"

Sweeney didn't respond.

His father fumbled to explain further. "It's just that I don't – you're not – well – I haven't talked to you in so long . . ."

"Yes," said Sweeney. "I'll – I'll come to your room at purple."

His father's worn face cracked into a grin. "Great." He peered down to the end of the corridor. "Now the only question is how to find my room – walking these halls is like a navigating a labyrinth."

Sweeney stepped towards his father. "Here – I have an easier way."

Sweeney showed his father the preferred Is method of travel – that of walking through walls – before returning to his own room for some well-deserved and well-needed sleep.

Sleep, however, was apparently still irritated at being slapped away at the ridiculous chord of pumpkin, for it refused to return to him. Soon pumpkin passed into orange and orange began to near sunrise and he still could not get a damn wink of sleep because his muscles refused to soften, his mind refused to silence, and the only thing that could ever soothe both his muscles and mind was . . .

"Good bloody God, Mr. T," Eleanor grumbled as he slid down next to her on her cot. She shifted over to make room for him even as she scowled through sleep-starved eyes. "Did you really have to wake me up in the goddamned middle of the night?"

"You do realize He cares not one whit about your sleeping habits, don't you, pet?"

She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand to look down at him. "Don't detract from the subject. I'm serious. I need to be awake in two and a half chords and it's going to be bloody impossible to fall back asleep now with you here taking up all the room – "

"You weren't asleep before I came in."

Her scowl deepened. "I'll have you know that I was sound asleep, thank you, and now that you've interrupted that – "

"You never lie perfectly still when you sleep, and your eyes don't move beneath their lids – both contradictions to when I entered your room. And you snore," he added.

"Bloody overly-observant arse," she complained, but did not resist when he tugged her head down against his chest and flung an arm across her back.

"You also swear like a sailor when you're either enraged or lacking sleep," he went on, and she groaned, clearly tiring of this subject. "Since you're not currently furious – "

"What makes you so sure?" she growled, suddenly playful, biting his collarbone.

" – you must be sleep-deprived." His tone lost its sardonic tenor. "What's troubling you, pet?"

She shrugged, snuggling further into his arms, rolling over until she lay half on top of him. "Too many thoughts, I s'pose. But 's'not unusual. I never sleep well – you know that. Neither do you." She lifted her head to peer at him, eyebrows drawn. "But it's unusual for you to ask – "

"I'm trying to be amiable. You told me it was a skill I needed to work on."

" – which means you're searching for something. So what's troubling you?"

"My father just arrived on Is," he told her.

"Oh! Well, that – that wasn't what I was expecting – but that's great, love – I mean, no, not great – it's not great that he died – but great that you two can now spend more time together, y'know – the both of you always got on fairly well, after all. . . ."

Sensing his sudden desire for quiet (and for once being kind to it), she closed her mouth. Absent-mindedly, he began to pull her hair pins from her curls. She sighed and again rested her head over his heart.

He missed being a barber, he realized. Missed assembling hair to his will, missed the smell of shaving cream and the texture of stubbled skin, missed shaping, chiseling, creating . . . he enjoyed pottery and sculpture, but it was not the same. Thank God Eleanor still had a full head of hair. Fiddling with her locks was not the same as barbering, but it was still a chance to craft with his hands. An escape.

"Have to get up now, love," Eleanor murmured in his ear, kissing his lobe as she unknotted their limbs. "Clock just struck maize."

"Impossible," Sweeney grunted, rolling onto his side, refusing to open his eyes. "I just got here."

"You drifted off to sleep, love," she informed him, the cot creaking and lightening as she stood up.

He cracked open his eyes. "Your hair. It's only half-braided."

She smiled at him. "Like I said, you dozed off a while back."

He beckoned her back to bed. "Let me finish it."

Normally, he hated lingering in bed in the mornings. Today, all he desired was to lie there with her body breathing against his and his hands shaping her curls. It baffled him.

Eleanor's foot jerked forward, towards him. Then she stopped herself, backpedalling, shaking her head and letting the half-braid unwind. "No, love, I can't – we've got to get going – shop's got to be open in a chord – and I can't work if my hair is falling down my back and not pinned to my scalp . . ."

Reluctantly, he stood up from the cot. She assured him she'd be by his shop soon with breakfast as soon as she'd freshened up, knotted her hair into the usual up-do, and rose up on tip-toes to place a kiss on his lips before stepping through the wall.

xxx

The chord of purple found him knocking upon the door of _Matthew Thomas Barker_. His father received him with a radiant smile; Sweeney averted his eyes as his father inquired, "Where are we off to?"

"I usually dine on Mrs. Lovett's food – "

"Sounds fine – you're the expert here."

" – but she's only my – " _your what? Your friend? Your lover? Just another person you murdered?_ " – she's just an old acquaintance of mine. We could go elsewhere."

His father shrugged and smiled again. "So long as we can talk."

They eventually wound up at an Indian restaurant.

"So," said Sweeney, taking a sip of wine, "how was your first day on Is?"

"Strange," his father confessed, "but it could have been much worse, I'm sure. I'm still trying to figure out what to do as my profession – all I've ever been is a carriage driver, but I was told there are no animals here. But I walked around the halls today, met a few people, got some ideas. . . . Are you still barbering?"

"No. Hair doesn't grow here."

The lines in his father's forehead rumpled even deeper. "Why's that?"

"It is what it is," Sweeney recited. His father sighed, indicating he'd already heard this saying more than enough. Sweeney continued, "That's what I was told when I arrived . . . but I think it's because spirits cannot age. Our bodies never become old: our bones never weaken, our skin never wrinkles. . . . Hair growth signifies aging, the passage of time – and we aren't capable of that."

His father mulled this over for a moment, stirring his lentils around his plate with a piece of bread, before asking, "So what is your job nowadays?"

"Artist."

"I'd love to see your work. Do you have a studio?"

"Yes. Come by tomorrow, if you like."

"So you're doing well on Is, I take it?"

Sweeney prodded a tomato with his fork. "I'm adapting. Sometimes it's difficult, knowing what to live for when you're not alive. Trying to live without life – live without purpose."

Abruptly, he shut his mouth and watched the silver glean of his fork as he twisted it this way and that. He never talked so openly about his feelings; what was wrong with him?

"I think you can still live with purpose here," his father said softly. "It seems many of the people do, from what I've seen."

Sweeney jerked his head to one side in acknowledgement. "So – on Earth – how is everyone? Our family, I mean. Were you – the last one to go?"

"No." His father took a gulp of ale. "Your siblings are still alive." His eyes darkened. "But your mother passed away eight years ago – consumption," he explained in response to Sweeney's wide eyes. "I had thought I would see her again when I passed away . . ."

_He steps through the wall again and again and again – _Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker_ – he will find her door, he will find it – _Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker_ – he must find her – _Lucinda Roselyn Barker_ – but he could not, he cannot, he will never see her again – _Lucy_ –_

"I'm sorry," Sweeney muttered.

His father nodded in acknowledgement and cleared his throat. In the silence that followed, his father ran the edge of his knife along the prongs of his fork and Sweeney requested a refill of his wine glass.

"If you don't mind me asking . . ." His father put down his silverware and placed his full attention upon his son. "How – how did it happen?" At Sweeney's blank look, he clarified: "Your – your death."

Sweeney's fingers tightened around his fork. These were exactly the sort of questions he had most wanted to avoid. He did not know what to say to his father. He did not know who to be for him.

"I'm sorry," said his father before Sweeney could think of a reply, lowering his gaze, "nevermind – I shouldn't've asked that. It isn't appropriate."

His father then changed the subject to mundane things, trifling events and happenings that had taken place over the last twenty years. The conversation flowed, but the amiable, light atmosphere of before was gone.

"Can I see you again?" his father dared to ask at the end of the meal as they were paying the bill, revealing his discomfort beneath the frothy babble.

"Of course," Sweeney said, because he knew he could say nothing else. "Come visit whenever you like."

"I would like to see your art studio sometime . . .?"

"Yes. I open at yellow and close at either purple or violet, depending on if I'm teaching a class that day."

His father gave him an appraising look. "You're a teacher now too? Hmm. Perhaps I'll stop by sometime – if you don't mind having such an old man for a pupil, that is."

"You'll find that age means very little here." Sweeney stepped out into the corridor, and his father followed. "Well – good-bye, Father." He stuck out his hand, but his father pulled him into a hug.

"G'night, son," he whispered, and it was only as his father was stepping through the wall that Sweeney realized he had not told his father that, if he were to visit his art studio, he would need to think the name _Sweeney Todd_, not _Benjamin Barker_, as he stepped through the wall.

_("only lied 'cause I love you . . .")_

xxx

"Sorry, we're closed," said Nellie drolly as she opened her shop door. "That's why the sign's up. Or did dying make you forget how to read?"

Judge Turpin's mouth twisted, and he reached up to stroke his clean-shaven chin. "My, we're ill-tempered tonight, aren't we?"

"No, _we_ merely do not want to host unpleasant company," she returned, mocking the way he used a royal 'we' so casually.

"I promise I will not be long."

"Fine. What d'you want?"

"Might I come in?"

Nellie scowled. For God's sake, it was afterchords – and even if it hadn't been afterchords, she was sick of her existence revolving around this bastard. She wanted nothing further to do with him. She didn't want to talk about him, think about him, waste any more energy comforting her lover about him, and she most certainly did not want to fucking deal with the man in person.

But on the other hand . . . well, Turpin _was _scheming something . . . what he had in mind, however, she hadn't a clue. Perhaps if she let him in and heard out whatever he wanted to say, she could deduce his plot . . .

Nellie stepped back and allowed Turpin to pass inside.

"Thank you," said Turpin, a hint of amusement in his tone. Oh, he found her humorous, did he? He took a seat at one of the many tables, looking severely out of place in the way he held himself so stiff and straight-backed in the chair, hands clasped on the table.

Nellie flounced to a nearby table and sat atop its surface. "Well?"

Turpin twiddled his thumbs. "We've known each other many years now, Mrs. Lovett."

"Unfortunately."

"And I realize we have never had a warm relationship."

"Took you this long to realize?"

"But I want to change that," Turpin continued, and he leaned towards her, features avid. Nellie's stomach coiled. "I told you some time ago that I would like to mend my broken bridges. You are one of them."

"Death's really changed you, hasn't it?" she remarked sarcastically.

"Yes," Turpin murmured, "it has."

Nellie frowned.

"Hasn't it changed you?" he inquired.

Uncomfortable by this change in subjects, she shrugged one shoulder. "I s'pose. Yes. In some ways. Though not as many as I would've hoped."

He waited, as though hoping for her to elaborate on this thought. When she didn't, he nodded and continued speaking. "Dying . . . it puts everything in perspective. What matters, and what doesn't. The mistakes we made while we were still alive. How we can fix them now."

_Don't. Don't let yourself get sucked into his lies. Don't let yourself believe him. The man's corrupted to the core, and dying doesn't change a thing like that._

Turpin cleared his throat and fastened his attention to his thumbs as he resumed twiddling them. The noise pulled her back to reality and she swung her feet back and forth over the ground, folding her arms across her chest.

"Yes. Well," he said. "As I was saying. I would like to strengthen our relationship, Mrs. Lovett. You are a smart, strong woman." She raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to know you better, bolster our ties . . . and perhaps, in time, earn your forgiveness in regards to Todd's – Barker's – sentence to Australia those many years ago."

"And Johanna."

"Pardon?"

"You'll also need to earn my forgiveness in regards to taking Johanna away from me after her parents were gone," said Nellie. Her tone betrayed no emotion save for a splinter of ire as she parodied his pompous way of speaking. "I was going to raise her myself, but then you stole her away."

"That was for the best, Mrs. Lovett. I gave her a lifestyle of devotion and love that you never could have. But I should not have abused my power so," he amended hastily at her withering glare.

"And Lucy." Her anger spilled over for a moment and her natural way of speaking returned: "Violating a woman what'd never done anything to you."

He surprised her by wincing at this accusation. "You are more correct than words can ever convey."

"And also for that time when – "

Turpin held up a hand. "I understand your point, Mrs. Lovett. You hold grudges against me for many reasons – many just reasons. This only furthers my statement: we do not have a fantastic relationship. Which leads me to my proposition."

Nellie held her breath. Whatever he was about to propose – and she couldn't think what he possibly _would_ propose – it couldn't be good.

"I would like to take you to dinner with you tomorrow night," said Turpin with his usual overconfident smile – yet his eyes betrayed an intensity, a fire for which she could not identify the source.

She blanched.

"For strictly platonic reasons, of course," Turpin fumbled, apparently flustered by her reaction. "I would never attempt to – erm, usurp – Mr. Todd's place."

She couldn't help a bubble of satisfaction well in her stomach at that. She knew that most citizens of London, back when she was alive, had gossiped about the affair they believed the barber and baker of Fleet Street to be having. The whispers of_ hussy_ and _whore _she could have done without, but that aside, she loved the hearsay, loved having all of London know that Sweeney Todd – in however frowned-upon a manner – was hers.

"But I – desire to know you better . . ." He canted his head, waiting for an answer.

Her instinct was to say no. Whatever Turpin had up his sleeve, it would lead to no good. Going along with his plan would only make it easier for him to carry out. But if she went out to dine with him . . . perhaps she could find out what his plan was – or even better, turn it upside down.

Wait. Was she actually considering this? She must be mad. His contrivance would eventually hurt she or Sweeney – or both of them. If she were to accept his offer, she would willing walk into his trap, and why the hell should she enable him like that?

"Mrs. Lovett?"

Nellie hopped off the table and marched to the door. "Sorry, love, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass on the offer."

"I – why?"

She thrust open the door. When she turned to Turpin, he had half-risen to his feet, mouth rounded in shock and eyebrows drawn together in befuddlement. "Because – _my lord_ – I'm through with deluding myself. You haven't changed at all, and I'm not going to try and tell myself otherwise."

Turpin pushed his chair to the side and strode towards her. "How can you know that I haven't changed if you don't take the time to – "

"I've spent all the time I want to on you." She opened the door wider.

He shook his head, bewildered. Apparently, her rejection had shocked him to the core. Well, that wasn't a surprise, really: the man wasn't used to being denied. "Why can you not spare me another chance?"

"Another chance?" Her calm front cracked; harsh laughter clawed from her throat. "Did you ever give Benjamin Barker another chance at his trial to defend himself? Did you even give him a _single_ chance?"

"Mrs. Lovett, I'm sorry that I cannot change the past. The future, however, is an open book to fill with whatever new chapters – "

"Oh, stop spouting rubbish, will you?"

"It isn't rubbish," Turpin snapped, beginning to flush with anger, stepping closer to her and forcing her to tilt her chin up to glare into his eyes. "I'm aware of my wrongs, and I want to amend for my former missteps – "

"_Missteps_? That's what you'd call raping a woman?"

His lips curled, revealing gritted teeth. "I would appreciate if you did not keep quibbling over my word choices. Perhaps I am not at my most elegant right now, but you could at least understand that I am doing my best."

Nellie simpered, lips twitching wildly from being forced into the false smile. "Oh, I do understand that you're doing your best – and your best isn't cutting it for me. That's why I'm showing you out."

Turpin was breathing hard now, body coiled tightly with anger and hands shaking, flexing, itching to hurt something, and she knew she should stop now, leave the room herself, before his temper cascaded over and she could do nothing to halt its effects. The man may have been her elder by a good twenty years, but she had no doubt that he was still as strong and vicious as he had once been.

He growled, "You should be delighted that I'm showing a woman of your standing any sort of attention – "

She threw open the door all the way, shoving it away from her so hard and fast that it shook on its hinges and emitted a trembling _bang_ as it hit the wall, and stabbed a finger towards the doorway, pointing him out. _"Fuck off."_

His hand jerked into the air, fingers splayed as though to strike her, and she cowered – _shit Nellie why didn't you just leave why can't you control your temper just once when it really matters_ – but the blow never came. When she dared a glance at him, his fingers had curled into a fist, and he was lowering his arm to his side, a strange look in his eyes as he drank her in, seeing her yet also beyond her.

"Fine," he breathed. "If that's the way you would like it to be – " And then he disappeared through the wall so fast she could have blinked and missed it.

Leaving her with nothing to do but lean against the doorframe and catch her breath and pray to nonexistent gods that this encounter would not come back to haunt her in the future.

xxx

"We're going to try something new today – sculpture."

"Isn't that what we've been doing since we started?" the sneering adolescent girl inquired. "Sculpting?"

"Sculpture and pottery are two different mediums," Sweeney informed her, pacing in front of his pupils. "Pottery deals with clay. Sculpture is made from materials such as stone, metal, bronze, or wood. Both are about shaping matter as you wish, but sculpture relies on carving away material – as opposed to pottery, which requires one to add material. Understand?"

"No," replied the girl with a scoff. "Sounds like nonsense."

"I think it makes sense," declared the pimpled young man, throwing a dirty look to the girl. Ever since creating a pottery piece worth looking at some classes ago, he'd gained a good deal of confidence. "So what are we doing today?"

"Today, I just want you to familiarize yourself with the tools used in sculpture. Take your resper block and use whatever tools you like. You have to be comfortable with these apparatuses in your hand before you can use them correctly."

The spirits all made their way towards the materials table, some rushing to select theirs first, others moseying over at a leisurely pace. Once the class was settled in their seats, Sweeney took to his usual slow pacing about the room, occasionally stopping to help a student.

As he'd expected, his pupils attempts at wielding chisels and mallets were awkward at best. Some part of him wondered if it was wise to shift away from pottery just when they'd actually begun to produce decent creations. But pottery was all he'd taught since becoming a teacher, and that was over two Earth years ago. It was time for a change of pace.

Besides, Turpin was absent from his class today, and this fact had placed him in an oddly buoyant – and oddly relaxed – mood.

"Need any help?" Sweeney asked, pausing beside the desk of one of his pupils, the one who always stared at him. Sweeney hated to admit it, but the persistent stares made him uneasy.

The man's dark eyes flickered with disgust. He sneered a little as he picked up a wooden mallet, switching it from palm to palm. "Have to be comfortable with these apparatuses in our hands before we can use them correctly, do we? Is that what you were taught too?"

Sweeney's eyes narrowed. "I taught myself sculpture."

"I'm not talking about sculpture. I'm talking about barbering."

Sweeney did not reply.

The man's sneer widened, lips parting to bare his teeth, resulting in an ugly, mirthless amusement. "You don't remember me, do you?"

_("why should you? I was just a little nipper you hired for a couple of weeks")_

"All this time, I thought you were just pretending you didn't recognize me . . . but you really don't know who I am."

The man's volume was rising in anger and Sweeney's muscles were tensing with comprehension.

"But I suppose that makes sense," the man continued. The mallet no longer jumped from palm to palm, and the hand holding the mallet trembled. "I was probably just one of many, wasn't I? Just one of many who had their throat slit in your barber chair, just one of many that you murdered in cold blood without a second thought."

The man's words were nothing but the purest truth. He was just one of the many murdered because he was just that: one of many. People were not entitled to live just because they had been born. They had to earn that right by living justly – and very few, if any, humans ever did. So why did Sweeney feel a cold, sticky trickle upon the back of his neck, as though a cracked egg were dribbling upon his skin?

The mallet fell from the man's grip and smacked the desk. "I had a family, y'know – I told you I was a sailor, going place to place all the time – but that didn't mean I had nothing to return home to. And you took all that away – "

"What do you want from me?" Sweeney asked, looking straight into the fires of the man's eyes. "I can't give your life back to you."

The man stared at him, palms flat and fingers splayed on the desk, wild-eyed, fury and repulsion bleeding as freely from his skin as rubies had from his throat. Ramsey, Sweeney suddenly recalled, this man was Lysander Ramsey: the one who had departed Earth with a downward diagonal swoop from the right across his jugular; the one who had tried to say something as blood torrented from his neck but only managed to garble two nonsensical syllables; the one who Eleanor had complained barely contained enough meat on him for four dozen pies, why couldn't Sweeney be more considerate when selecting his targets, they both needed to make a living somehow, and if all his slaughtered bodies yielded so little meat, they'd be high and dry before you could say 'coriander.'

"An apology?" Sweeney continued. "Remorse?"

"Bastard," Ramsey snarled. He shot to his feet. Now eye-level with Sweeney, they stood nearly nose-to-nose. "You, standing there – thinking you're superior – you still don't get it, do you?"

The sticky cold feeling dribbled further down Sweeney's skin, worming beneath his robes and tracing along his spine. He leaned backwards, away from his victim. "I don't get why you're confronting me now. What you hope to gain from this."

"Gain," Ramsey spluttered, "gain – this isn't about _gain_, this is about – you – I want you to feel something, realize what you did – what you took from me. . . ."

_At the time, I thought I was giving, not taking away,_ Sweeney thought but did not say aloud. _At the time, I thought death was a respite from life. At the time, I envied that I still had justice to serve, that I could not yet renounce living as you did._

Ramsey shook his head. "But you still don't understand what it means to harm someone. Not just to tear into a body, but a soul, something with an identity, a family, a history, feelings – something living – "

His words halted, and he swiveled around to face the wall, breathing heavy and erratic as he tried to fight back sobs. The sticky cold infused Sweeney's whole body, gluing him to the floor, making movement of even his lips excruciatingly painful and slow, like a torturous ballet:

"I understand that you're angry," he said at last.

Ramsey snorted through his tears.

"You should be," Sweeney continued. "You should want to destroy me the way I did you."

That made Ramsey turn back around.

"But I – I've learned destroying someone else only leads to your own destruction in the end."

Were they words that Sweeney believed? Were they convictions that he held? Did it matter so long as Ramsey left him alone; so long as Sweeney was allowed to keep this pathetic imitation of life that he deserved no more than any man, yet nonetheless stupidly desired to live; so long as this sticky cold trickle licking down his spine disappeared (was it shame? guilt? remorse? he could not recall what any of them felt like and did not want to, but a thing unnamed never had to be real)?

Sweeney picked up the mallet Ramsey had dropped on the desk, running his numb fingers over the crack that had resulted from the impact. "Do as you must to me . . . but keep what's left of yourself."

Ramsey shook his head, not bothering to battle with the tears this time: they freely ran down his clean-shaven face. "You stole it all – there's nothing left."

Sweeney placed the mallet back on the desk. "You'd be surprised," he muttered.

For a long moment, Ramsey did not move. Sweeney, too, stayed where he was, facing his former victim, waiting for a punch to the stomach with a fist or a smash to the head with the mallet or some other violent outlash.

None came.

_Not everyone tries to hide their old wounds by creating a fresh one as you do, Todd. Some people understand that destruction is not the gateway to salvation._

Without a word, Ramsey stepped around Sweeney and disappeared through the wall.

In the sudden throb of silence, Sweeney remembered that he was standing in the middle of his classroom, surrounded by pupils. For the first time since the altercation, he looked at them. Each expression staring back at him was different: eyes bulging in horror; disgusted curled upper lips; cheeks blanched and sickly; eyebrows drawn together. Each expression mirrored one he had seen as he was shoved towards the ship that bore him to Botany Bay – except this time, the expressions were just.

But he did not care what they thought. He did not care as they silently gawked at him, did not care as he sunk down into his desk chair (he no longer trusted that he could support his own weight), did not care as the pudgy boy rose upon shaking legs and marched out of the room in what was likely the first courageous and initiative action in his lifetime. He did not care as, in twos and threes, the rest of the class followed his lead. He did not care that his stomach flip-flopped when Eloise's hurt gaze darted towards him then away as she too left the room. He did not care when every desk was deserted except one –

But he did forget to breathe.

When their eyes met, Benjamin Barker's father rose to his feet and slowly made his way to the front of the room.

Sweeney had not known his father had attended his art class, had not seen him come into the room. Of all the circles for him to take up his son's offer to sit in upon one of his classes . . .

His father did not stop walking until he was a foot away. With him closer, Sweeney could see the tears leaking from the elderly man's eyes.

His father's lips struggled over silent syllables for a moment, each sound failing to be discernable to human ears until, finally, he managed to whisper: "What did I do wrong for you, Ben?"

Sweeney rose to his feet and began to approach his father, then hesitated and remained where he was. "Nothing. You did nothing wrong." He instinctually felt for the outside of his pocket, not for bloodlust but for comfort; the weight of his fettling knife sat inside and sifted between his fingers. "You aren't responsible for what I am."

Ramsey's words echoed in his ears: _"You stole it all – there's nothing left."_ But as he watched his father – an already broken soul – crumble into something beyond dust, he thought again how wrong this was.

"_You'd be surprised,"_ he'd replied to Ramsey.

_You'd be surprised what a person can lose even after they think they've lost everything. You'd be surprised how much you still feel._

_You'd be surprised how alive a dead person is._

"Did I not give you enough attention?" his father asked; it was almost a plead. "Enough love?"

Sweeney gripped his fettling knife and felt the blade slice through his skin even through the cover of fabric. "Father – my childhood was fine." His blood seeped into the material of his robes, but it wasn't visible; the black masked the red. "You aren't responsible. You didn't raise a monster."

His father wiped at his eyes, trying to recover his last bit of dignity. Sweeney hid his bleeding hand inside his pocket, watching and waiting for nothing nameable. His father looked at him for a solid, hallucinated heartbeat, before stepping through the wall and vanishing.

Sweeney hadn't noticed, but Eleanor had entered the classroom. She stood immobile by the far wall, gazing at him with unbound pain and love that hurt to gaze back at for too long. Her hands were clasped tight in an upside-down prayer.

He swallowed. "I . . ."

"Shh." She approached, sliding her hands onto his shoulders and rubbing them. "Don't talk now, love – it's alright – "

He jerked away from her. She was wont to pretend that all was well in the world, but he was not going to let her, not tonight.

She didn't so much as blink at his curt behavior. "I'm going to go make dinner," she announced brusquely. "Why don't you come with me to my shop while I prepare things?"

"I'll stay here." He sat down atop his desk, still clutching his bleeding fist around the fabric that made up his pocket.

"I don't think you should be alone right now, Sweeney," she said, her tone softer than before.

He snorted and looked up at her. "Why? Afraid I'll go on a massacre in my 'unstable state'?"

She stepped up to him and removed his hand from his pocket, not seeming at all surprised at its profuse bleeding – as though she'd already known he'd accidentally cut himself. How was it she knew him so damn well?

"No," she said as she attempted to staunch the bleeding with her own sleeve, "I'm not worried you're going to go on a massacre. I know those times are over for you. I'm worried that you'll _be_ massacred."

"By who?" he asked, to humor her.

Closing her eyes, she brought his wounded hand up to her face and brushed her mouth against the knuckles. Even after the kiss, her eyes remained closed, her mouth resting on the back of his hand. Her lips burned like fire.

"Yourself," she whispered.

"I'm fine, Eleanor," he muttered. She released his hand so she could look around the room for linens to wrap his injury with. "As fine as I can be, at least." His eyes trailed each of her movements as she rummaged about the cupboards: the swish of her robes, the tilt of her chin, the sweep of her hands. "I didn't want for this to happen . . ."

Locating cloth, she returned to his side, perching beside him on the desk as she began to dab at the wound with a wet piece of fabric; he winced. "With your father, you mean?"

He nodded. "He shouldn't feel responsible for what I've become, but I knew he would if he found out."

She frowned down at his hand. "This probably isn't what you want to hear right now, dear, but him finding out was inevitable. You couldn't've kept up the fabrication about you dying in Australia forever."

He winced again as she continued her ministrations. "I didn't want to hurt him."

She glanced up and met his gaze. "I know, love," she said, and he doubted if they were still talking about he and his father.

Her gaze returned to his hand, and she began to wrap the injury. "But it doesn't matter what you did or didn't want – it's all out in the open now. I don't want to lie and say that I know he'll eventually come 'round and forgive you, 'cause I don't know any such thing. But I do know that love is a strong bond and it can't usually be broken . . . even when we most want it to."

"Do you regret it, Eleanor?"

The question fled his lips before he could bar it from escape and he silently cursed himself for his weakness.

She lifted her eyes to his, her hands continuing to bind his cut. "Regret what?"

"The pies. The murders. Our . . . businesses."

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Sometimes I do. I know that I should . . . but I usually don't. I don't think they all deserved it – was never certain they did – but I never thought twice about it at the time. It was just what I needed to do. And even though it'd be harder the second time 'round, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat." Her eyes widened, as though she had shocked herself by admitting it aloud. "That makes me a terrible person, doesn't it?"

"No. Maybe." He was becoming rapidly uncomfortable and wished he had never mentioned the subject. "I don't know. I think it just makes you human."

She grimaced, her fingers lingering on his hand even after she finished bandaging it. "I think it'd be human to feel remorse about killing someone. To feel nothing about it seems decidedly inhuman."

"You didn't kill anyone," Sweeney tried to assuage her, in the hopes that she would cease talking.

His plan failed; her chatter was even more feverous than before. "I appreciate you trying to comfort me, love, but I might as well have killed them. I soiled my hands just as much as you in the name of what I loved, and lost just as much of myself because of it.

"What about you?" she asked. "D'you regret it?"

He watched his blood seep through and stain the white bandages, flowers of crimson that would soon turn brown. "No," he said, noting the contrast of her pale hand against the cloths soiled with rubies. "I don't."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are love.

Anonymous review replies:

_Guest_: I absolutely love the image of you doing a fist pump and high kick while sitting at your computer chair, reading one of my alert e-mails. xD You are really too kind. Thank YOU for R-&-R-ing, and I do hope you enjoyed this latest chapter!

_Thelovelyflorencelovett_: Hey, don't let Sweeney hear that you're calling him adorable. xD But yes . . . –ahem- . . . he is, haha. Thanks for reviewing!


	27. Truth

_I am incapable of conceiving infinity and yet I do not accept finity.__– __Simone de Beauvoir_

xxx

"I simply can't comprehend it."

"Comprehend what?"

"This. Is. I just don't understand."

Nellie didn't make it a habit to hear the conversations of her customers, but like any other human, a natural curiosity did on occasion compel her to listen. She didn't feel guilty: if they didn't want anyone to overhear their discussion, then they shouldn't hold it in a public place.

"I just don't understand where this is – what this is . . ." the man (she'd decided he was Scottish based on his accent) continued. "I always thought – I always _knew_ I would go to heaven. I was a priest, you see."

_("too good, at least")_

"And this – " he gestured around the room with despair " – this is not . . . anything like what it should be . . ."

"It will be fine," said Reyna Lovett; she and Albert had taken to frequenting Nellie's shop. Nellie was bemused, but didn't object: Reyna's former discomfort around her had long ago melted away, and the three now got along quite well. In some strange way, without the pressure of a loveless marriage bludgeoning into their flesh, she and Albert got on better than they ever had.

"It just takes a bit of time, that's all," Albert chimed in with a reassuring grin.

The priest did not grin back; he could not be so easily satiated. "But what is this Is? Where is it? Who is controlling this place? Is anyone controlling? Why are we here? And – "

"Here's a spot of food," said Nellie as she strolled over and set his food down in front of him, doing her best not to laugh at the fact that she was serving one of _her_ pies to a former priest. "Should help calm you down. And darling – don't ask so many questions. It'll only make you frustrated. It just is what it is."

Nellie couldn't stop her lips from curving into a smile as she reflected on how far she'd come. She used to be the same way, she recalled, questioning everything about Is, needing to possess all the answers. Now she accepted it all for what it was, just as a true soul of Is did.

"Do you really believe that?" asked Reyna, her brow furrowed.

Nellie straightened and put one hand on her hip. "Well, yes, 'course I do. D'you disagree?"

"I am not challenging you, Nellie," said Reyna with the minutest of smiles, taking in Nellie's defensive stance. Nellie gave a sheepish grin and took her hand off her hip. "I have no more answers than the next soul. I simply do not trust the line about how everything just is what it is – never have."

Nellie's lips bent into a pitying smile. "And what other possible explanation is there, love?"

Reyna rotated her cup of gin between her palms, but kept her gaze upon Nellie's. "Well . . . I think the spirits who come to Is are the ones who still needed more time on Earth." Nellie's eyebrows met in the middle. "The ones who still had something to complete before they were fulfilled – and who, for whatever reason, had that opportunity taken from them."

Nellie shot a look at Albert to get his verdict on his wife's notions, but he just shrugged one shoulder and smiled. She returned her gaze to Reyna. "More time to – do what, exactly?"

"Whatever left them incomplete. Maybe it was something that needed to be completed while the spirit still lived – a confession of love or a request of forgiveness to someone who is still among the living, for instance. Or maybe it's something that the spirit can still do in the hereafter – forgiving or loving themselves, perhaps."

"Uh-huh," said Nellie, not convinced. She drummed her fingers on the Lovetts' table. "So, then, by your theory – the instant we 'fulfill' this unmet need, we get to leave Is and go elsewhere?"

"Perhaps. I never claimed to know all the answers. I do believe that every soul of Is is lacking in some way – that we ran out of time before we could finish all that we were meant to."

Nellie shook her head. "I'm sorry, love, but your theory's got a lot of holes. For one, most people on Is seem pretty happy – I don't think many of them are hankering to change."

"Ever noticed how each and every soul here has something they regret?" Reyna persisted. "Some of them have accepted these things, certainly, and some have even found a way to change, or make up for what happened in the past. But everyone here has a history. Everyone here died still needing something they never found while alive – no matter what condition they are in now."

"I see," said Nellie, playing along. "So what's your history?"

"I was born into a peasant family during the final years of the sixteen century." Reyna recited her tale without feeling, as though she had long ago outgrown being emotionally attached to it; Albert, however, scraped his chair closer to his wife and curled his arm protectively around her shoulders. "We lived in the Basque country, nearby Spain. I grew up like any other child, helping my mother raise my five younger siblings, sneaking off to tussle in the streets with the other children when I could. I followed the path of any other woman, marrying at eighteen, bearing my first child at nineteen. I was accused of and executed for witchcraft at twenty-two."

"Oh – God – I'd no idea – I'm so sorry, Reyna – "

Reyna smiled. "No. Don't be sorry. Whyever should you be? I don't regret a single moment of my life. Not the hungry missed meals of my childhood, not the loveless nights of my marriage, not the few precious months I had with my daughter. . . . All of those moments led me right here."

She leaned against Albert, resting her head upon his shoulder; he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and her eyes warmed. The hairs on Nellie's arms pricked with envy – not envy of Reyna being twined with her former husband . . . but envy that she could not have that same warm, joyful sparkle in her gaze.

"And how could I regret that?" Reyna murmured.

"So . . . you came up with this theory about souls being unfulfilled because – because you found the love you never got in life during your death – or something?" questioned Nellie.

"Something like that," agreed Reyna lightly. "And listening to other souls, as I mentioned – "

"I'm sorry, love," Nellie broke in, "I just don't believe it. Who determines if we're 'fulfilled' or not? What sort of god or normal spirit's been delegated that role? Doesn't everyone have some sort of missed opportunity or regret or something – wouldn't all souls land on Is if that was the case? Where do the others spirits go, then? It just doesn't make sense."

"Well," said Albert, looking at her, "neither do people."

"Mrs. Lovett! Would you mind topping off my ale?"

"Wh – oh! I'm so sorry, sir!" said Nellie, giving Albert and Reyna a quick nod before dashing over to the customer in want of more drink. "Got a bit distracted, didn't mean to, only just – "

"Not a problem, Mrs. Lovett. Thank you."

"Anytime, love."

Nellie remained 'a bit distracted' for the rest of the circle, Reyna's notion chewing at her mind. She still could not believe the theory. It simply did not hold together, and it raised more questions than answered.

And yet . . . she couldn't stop thinking about what Reyna'd said. Couldn't stop her words from resounding in her ears.

_Everyone here died still needing something they never found while alive . . ._

Well, it was obvious that Reyna had Nellie nailed. But to think that the others – that _everyone_ here – had died missing something?

Her eyes flicked to Eloise. That girl couldn't be missing anything; she was always so cheerful. _You know that means nothing._

Her friend Lorraine Mathers – she, too, seemed quite content. _You've never talked about anything serious with her. Besides, she might be one of the ones who found what she was missing upon dying. _

And Barsid? That man was happy as a clam. _He's hiding something. Remember how eager he was for you and Sweeney to _live_ in the afterlife and not just exist? Must be a personal reason behind all that._

Sweeney Todd. He had not died lacking anything. He'd finally achieved his life's purpose – he'd killed Turpin, the sole thing that had kept him living all those long months. _And he still wasn't happy. He never let himself be happy. You know that better than anyone._

Bewildered, Nellie bent over and rested her elbows on the counter, her head cradled in her hands. It didn't make sense.

_It makes no less sense than 'it just is.'_

There were too many holes.

_There are holes in everything. _

It couldn't be true.

_Why not?_

Could Reyna be right?

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Yes?"

Anatoly craned his head to one side and peered at her. "Are you feeling alright? Do you need to lie down?"

"Oh, I'm fine, don't you fuss your head over me," said Nellie, straightening and shooing him away. It was she that should have been fussing over him, really: he'd somehow gotten hold of an Earth calendar some circles ago and discovered that he'd been dead for seventy-four years, meaning his beloved would now be ninety-one years old – an age far higher than even an aristocrat should hope to live. Anatoly's typical buoyant, formal disposition had not faded since this discovery, but two purple badges sat permanently upon the skin beneath his eyes, his only reward for his sleepless nights spent searching Is for his lost love.

"Well," said Anatoly, placing a smile upon his face, "as you say. If you do need to rest for a bit, however, Eloise and I are certainly capable of taking over for the afternoon."

"Thanks, love," said Nellie, her lips rising into a painful, reluctant curve.

Anatoly hurried off to greet a new customer and Nellie's smile faded. Determined to keep her hands busy, she pulled out ingredients for a fresh batch of gingerbread. But keeping her hands occupied did not stop her mind from churning.

That evening, after her shop closed, Nellie melted into the floor and arrived at the netherlands.

She blinked around at her surroundings, disoriented. She couldn't explain in any logical way why she'd come here. She had vowed never to come back, and for once, had felt she could honor this vow. There was not a single part of her that desired to return to the netherlands.

Her feet, it seemed, had developed a mind of their own, for they began a brisk walk almost the instant she arrived, heading in what seemed to be the direction of the joining. It was only when she glimpsed Angie Ragg sitting at the base of her usual willow that her feet decided to catch up her brain with their decisions:

_Time to tell the whole truth and nothing but it, love._

Angie, gazing off into the distance, did not notice Nellie approaching until they were but a few feet apart. When she did see the baker, her eyes took on a careful, analyzing look: last time they had parted, it had been with the air that it would be the last time they'd ever meet.

"Hello, Nellie," Angie greeted as she ascended to a standing position.

Just as abruptly as Nellie's feet had carried her to the netherlands, they halted firmly against the ground, sending her brain into another spiral. What was she doing here? Telling Angie that her son was now a madman thanks to her wasn't going to change anything. All it would do was ease the guilt just a tad – but what right did she have to have her guilt eased? She deserved to suffer for the rest of her eternity, deserved to exist with the full burden of her sins pressing on her shoulders –

_And _she_ deserves to know what became of her son. You know it hurts worse in the end to have reality uncovered piece by piece. You know what it did to him. You know what it did to all of you._

"Do you have a few points?"

Angie tilted her head and smiled. "Sure I do. What's going on?"

Nellie's heart was in her throat. But her heart, for once, knew it was doing the right thing. "I need to tell you something. A lot of things, actually. And none of it is going to be nice to listen to, but you need to hear it."

No longer smiling, Angie just looked at her. Silent. Waiting for the truth.

Nellie told her everything. She began with when Sweeney Todd had returned to London, took her through their lives and their deaths. She told of how she had concealed that Sweeney's wife lived, of how she brought him to the room that had been his even without him there for fifteen years, of her love for him. She told of how she had known Angie's son, of how she had caused the boy's insanity.

Nellie would have needed more fingers than she possessed to count the number of times she had promised to herself that she would stop lying and then broken that promise. She'd never been able to commit to honesty. Reality hurt worse than half-lies, actuality was more painful than fables – truth destroyed a person more than omitted facts. That had been the philosophy behind each of her actions, the philosophy behind lying to Toby, to Sweeney, to herself . . .

_("by the beautiful sea")_

She had been wrong. Just as the saying goes, we live and learn.

_Or die and learn. _

Angie said nothing as Nellie talked, just stared at her. Even when Nellie finished, Angie remained silent, her eyes wide and fixed on hers. Nellie's heart was still lodged in her throat, beating as furious as a hummingbird beats its wings, while she waited. Waited for what, she did not know. Not acceptance, and she certainly could not expect forgiveness. Perhaps just for an answer. Perhaps just for recognition.

Angie enfolded the baker into a hug. Nellie's throat constricted around her pulsating heart.

"Sometimes we act immorally and sometimes we act morally," Angie murmured in her ear, "and sometimes our actions are shrouded in various shades of gray. And you, Nellie, you – you acted immorally and morally, selfishly and selflessly – you acted, in short, as all humans do. How could I fault you for that?"

Nellie pulled away enough to look into Angie's face. "You can't tell me you're not upset with me? At all?" Her previous thoughts about the woman had been spot on: she really was an angel or a saint or some other heavenly being. No one human could be so unreasonably accepting.

Angie smiled a bit, and it was then that Nellie noticed her eyes were wet. "Well, of course I am – and I'll certainly never be able to forget any of what you've told me. But in time, I'll forgive, and I'll get on with things."

"Forget and forgive," Nellie whispered.

Angie turned her face away, swiping at her eyes with her thumb. "If you don't mind, Nellie, I'd like to be – alone right now – I'm so grateful that you told me all this, but – right now, I just need – "

"Of course." Even saints had a breaking point; even angels could fall. "G'bye, love."

Nellie left Angie Ragg to herself and continued to stroll through the nethers. She should return to Is now, she knew, but for some reason, she did not want to return just yet, and instead sat down on a flat expanse of grass.

Her heart felt heavy and yet buoyant, her spirit guilt-ridden yet emancipated. _A riddle of contradictions,_ that was what that prig seamstress, Mademoiselle Gaspard, had called her. She'd been more right than she would ever know.

Everything after that happened so fast that Nellie couldn't completely process it: something behind her – it felt like hands – grabbed her arms and jerked the limbs behind her back. Her head twisted over her shoulder in a desperate attempt to see who was behind her. She cried out, her head snapping forward again, as the person hauled her to her feet. She jabbed her elbows backwards into her captor's stomach and kicked her feet against their shins, but they would not let go; she fought with all the strength she had but it was not enough.

She felt herself being pushed forward, led in a certain direction – she tried to resist – but her captor was able and unyielding and determined. Realizing it was futile to fight and that she should conserve her energy for a later battle, she ceased to struggle. Her shoes scraped against the ground and left trails of scuffed dirt as she was pushed along.

Her mind swam. What was happening? One moment she had been telling the truth – hugging the mother of her adopted son – receiving something close to forgiveness – sitting on the ground, enjoying existing – and the next she was being dragged deep into the nethers by someone clearly determined to take her there.

Swallowing her rising bile, Nellie twisted her head around to look into the face of her captor – and her heart plummeted to her stomach.

Judge Turpin leered at her. "Fancy meeting you here, Mrs. Lovett."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I apologize sincerely for the delay in getting this chapter posted, my dear readers. I've been working at a summer camp for people with special needs the past two months, and the job completely ate what was formerly known as everything else in my life - writing/editing/computer-quality-time included. xD But I am back now, and I am determined to get at least one more chapter posted before summer ends.

I apologize, too, for the shortness of this chapter, but the following chapter will give you a great deal to sink your teeth into, believe you me.

As always, reviews are love.

Anonymous review replies:

_thelovelyflorencelovett:_ Haha, well, to be fair, it's very hard for people to change! Anyway, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing.

_Lady Musket_: Gotta say, as much as I love Sweeney, I'd be terrified to pieces if he were ever MY teacher! xD Thanks for reviewing, love!

_Katkarasininen_: You read all 26 chapters in a single day on 3 hours of sleep?! Well, I must say that I am completed flattered, but I also have to ask: is that even healthy? xD

In all seriousness, I'm pleased as punch that you like my fic so much. I've always been curious what would happen to Sweeney and Nellie if the circumstances weren't changed – could they create and maintain a relationship even if some fan-fic author didn't create an AU scenario? So I'm pleased to hear that you think I have (so far) been successful. ^^

As to your desire to see Sweeney and Nellie talk about the circumstances of their deaths . . . well, without giving anything away, yes, that will happen. Suffice to say that, even though they've made a lot of progress, they still have a LOT to work through!

I'm glad to hear you like my OCs too! I frankly am not, with one or two exceptions, very confident in my ability to write OCs, so it's nice to hear that other people are. xD

Assuming that the number of chapters doesn't change while I continue to edit, there will be a total of thirty-four chapters plus an epilogue. But please don't hold me to that number. I have an unhealthy habit of obsessive editing. xD

Anywho, thank you so much for R-&-R-ing, and I hope you continue to enjoy the fic!


	28. In Pursuit Of Your Deepest Urge

_What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil.__ – __Friedrich Nietzsche_

xxx

"You – "

Nellie tried futilely to get her mouth to articulate more, shaping her lips in a variety of ways, but no sound escaped. Her brain stuttered with frantic half-thoughts – _what's he doing what's going on how did he get here why is this happening _– as she was pushed deeper still into the netherlands.

Pushed through the netherlands by Judge Turpin, no less.

Finally she managed to get out, "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Turpin, not ceasing to force her along; his circles upon the farm had clearly built up his strength.

"No," Nellie retorted, craning her neck around to glare at him, "it's not."

Turpin's eyes flicked down to meet her gaze. Soft anger, like the start of a fire, smoldered beneath the cold sheen. "I'm doing what I have been trying to do for more than three Earth years – I'm doing what I should have done long ago."

Her stomach lurched.

"And if you and Todd were not so uncooperative," he spat, "it would never have taken this long." He drew in a breath, regained his temporary loss of composure. "I am through inveigling uselessly with the two of you. But it doesn't matter now. Soon it will be over."

Had Nellie's heart not been pounding so loud, she might have taken a moment to gloat over the fact that she'd been right and Sweeney'd been wrong – that Turpin _had_ been conspiring against them, playing nice in order to get them to go along.

Right now, however, it was all she could do to muzzle her rising panic.

Thinking that perhaps, if she kept him talking, it would slow his footsteps a bit – she could not think what to do aside from stall – she asked, "So – what've you been planning?"

"The fires."

"'S'cuse me? What're the fires?"

"The fires," he repeated with relish, as though he hadn't heard her question. Perhaps deciding he had nothing to lose by sharing with her the details of his plot – not when he was about to achieve his long-desired victory – he continued. "At first, I wanted to throw Todd in and finally rid him from my existence. But then I reasoned to myself – no – I did not merely want Todd gone. That would be too kind. I realized I wanted him to suffer for what he did to me."

Nellie blinked and shuddered – for a moment she could have sworn it was Sweeney standing behind her and not Turpin.

Turpin bared his teeth in a grin as their eyes locked again. "And what better way for him to suffer than to lose his whore?"

_Stay calm. Show no fear. Show no anything._

"So what're the fires?" Nellie repeated.

Turpin's eyes glittered. He turned his attention forward again. "You will see soon enough, my dear."

xxx

_Where is she?_

Sweeney again scanned the inside of _Mrs. Lovett's Emporium_ – not that he expected his second search to yield any different results than the first. And they didn't. Eleanor still wasn't in the room.

It was currently half past magenta – a chord and a half after she usually came to his shop with dinner – two and a half chords after closing time for her shop. She hadn't latched the door to her business, which suggested that she'd left with the intention of being back soon, as she always locked up before leaving for the night. So there was no reason to worry. She'd return soon enough.

_But . . ._

But she had never been this late with supper before, and running out for a quick errand – even if she did decide to talk with the shopkeeper (which, chatterbox that she was, was quite likely) – didn't take over two chords. She wasn't likely to become distracted by purchasing items that weren't on her list, either. She was a daydreamer, yes, but that didn't mean she wasn't efficient and punctual.

_But . . ._

But there was no need to worry. She was more than capable of handling herself.

_But . . ._

But nothing.

_But . . . _

Sweeney snarled and his feet fell to pacing, back and forth across the room, whirling around each time he came to a corner, back and forth, his thumb running along the smooth edge of his fettling knife, back and forth . . .

_Where are you, Eleanor?_

He felt a tug at his midsection. His steps froze and he bent his head to stare at his stomach. The tugging persisted, pulling him downward.

He remembered this feeling. The same thing had happened when he had been searching on Earth for Eleanor – this same invisible rope had yanked at his torso and eventually led him to her. . . .

Did that mean that she was on Earth again? Hadn't she promised, hadn't she sworn she wouldn't do that again? Wasn't she content with their current arrangement? Hadn't she decided dwelling with the living accomplished nothing? Wasn't she happy now?

The rope jerked harder.

He shook himself. Fine. If she wanted to stay on Earth and waste away into nothing, then she should be allowed to do so. It didn't make any real difference to him. She didn't make any real difference to him.

_You really still think saying that enough times will make it true?_

Regardless, it was her decision what she did with her soul. She had made her choice. He was not going to interfere.

_But . . ._

He swore aloud.

If Sweeney Todd could have died twice, Eleanor Lovett would have been the cause.

He closed his eyes, and, obedient to the pull on his midsection, melted into the ground and to the netherlands.

Once there, the unseen force, rather than yanking him down, pulled him forward. Concluding that it must be taking him to the waters, he listened to the invisible twine and stalked forward.

The nethers appeared just as he remembered them – growing and flourishing and far too beautiful to be real. Whoever or whatever had designed this place must have intended it as a mockery of reality, of what the souls used to know back when they lived. An everlasting taunt of what was no longer.

"_And why should you weep then, my Jo, my Jing . . .?"_

Sweeney's legs froze and his head snapped up. That song – those words – and the _voice_ –

He forced his head down and compelled his leaden legs to keep walking. He could not loiter in the past anymore – especially not now – and to hallucinate her . . . no. He would not allow it.

"_Your father's at tea with the Swedish king . . ."_

His fingers curled into fists, nails stabbing into his palms and the fresh cut from the knife – she sounded so close, so real; he burned to draw closer to the song, to envelope himself in her voice –

_Stop it. She's not real and never will be._

"_He'll bring you the moon on a silver string . . ."_

Every instinct screaming in protest, every muscle straining against him, Sweeney whirled in the direction that the melody seemed to drift from and drew nearer. The invisible rope pulled harder but he ignored it. Perhaps he had gone mad _(not really a perhaps, is it?)_, but the song sounded as though it was coming from inside of a tree with a dark hollow nearly wide enough to hold a man.

_Or wide enough to hold a woman . . ._

_She's not in there, Todd. Focus._

_That's her voice – you know it's her voice – you know how long you've waited to hear her again –_

_Don't. Stay in reality._

He stepped into the hollow.

Lucy wasn't there.

The seeds of wilted, desperate hope flattened. Yet the phantom voice continued to croon, tantalizing close yet achingly far . . .

"_Quickly to sleep then, my Jo, my Jing . . ."_

Drawing in a heavy breath, he turned to leave – only to realize there was no longer an exit.

The tree had somehow sealed itself off to the outside world. The thought sounded ludicrous even in his mind, but that didn't make it any less true. He was girdled on all sides by darkness and bark. Swallowing, he stretched out his hands and patted them against the walls of the tree, searching for a gap, a hole that he might widen. He searched in vain. There was no way out.

"_He'll bring you a shoe and a wedding ring . . ."_

Panic rose, but he beat it down. He was a specter. Specters did not need a continual supply of fresh air in order to breath. Besides, specters could walk through solid walls. He stepped confidently forward in the darkness, picturing in his mind the outside of the tree – and smacked head-first into the solid barricade of bark. The nethers, he realized too late, ran by their own set of rules.

Cursing, rubbing his forehead, he glared around at the nothingness, then noticed a breeze wafting up from the ground. With a frown, he stretched out his palm towards the dirt. Air blew onto his hand as though he was above the sky – or as though he were on a platform rushing down . . .

A shaft of white light pierced through the darkness and he shielded a hand over his eyes.

"_Sing here again, home again, come again sp – "_

The singing choked off. He squinted through his fingers, trying to make out what was happening as his eyes adjusted to the new brightness. He was no longer in the tree, but in an entirely white corridor, so much white it continued to sting his eyes even as they adjusted to the light. Everything in the hallway – from the walls to the floor to the ceiling – had a fuzzy, insubstantial look, as though it were made entirely from clouds. He took a step forward with trepidation, then – when his foot did not sink into oblivion – another.

"B-Benjamin?"

Though he had not for some years gone by the name of Benjamin Barker, Sweeney had never been able to entirely stop responding to his Christian name. Even in his last living year, each time he distantly heard a voice in London calling Benjamin, he could not stop his head from twitching on reflex, twisting however minutely towards the voice that was not speaking to him. Today was no different.

Except it was.

Because the voice _was_ speaking to him.

And the voice spoke again, a smile gracing the owner's lips, as he stared. _"Benjamin."_

Of all the cruelties his mind had ever wrought upon him – drawing illusions of what was no longer, creating sounds of the past, bestowing memories he no longer wanted to have – this was the worst.

Lucy Barker stood before him. Not as the mad woman she had been last he'd seen her, but as the beautiful lady he'd been forced to leave behind all those years ago. She appeared here before him far more vivid and tangible and real than the faded photographs of his memories, and already this beautiful illusion bloomed in place of the foggy recollection he'd held of her, restoring the rightful shapes and colors to his mind. He took a step towards her – it was her, it was his Lucy, his love, they were reunited at last –

But – no – it was only a mirage. He urged his feet to halt against the ground. This wasn't her. He had looked for her upon coming to Is. She wasn't in this afterlife.

– _there is no time, the judge is coming, and if the judge sees this batty woman in the barbershop everything might be ruined –_

"It's so good to see you again," said Lucy. She wore a silk dress as white and flowing as the clouds that composed the hallway. She looked so radiant and lovely and happy – everything she had not been upon her death – upon her murder by his hands –

– _without hesitation he slits her throat –_

Unwilling to support the weight of his body, his knees buckled. He stumbled backwards, landing in the floor of clouds. They were cool and thready to the touch, like wool in the winter.

Lucy's brow creased. "Ben? What's wrong?"

_("don't I know you, Mister?")_

She moved towards him, but he turned his head away, screwing his eyes shut. "No. Don't come near me."

"Why not?" she asked, her tone wounded.

_Because you're not here. Because you're not real. Because I can't bear any more lies._

Soft fingers settled against his cheek and he shuddered – _too warm too false too real_ – tried to twist away – but another hand pressed against the other side of his face, denying him escape. His breathing labored, he pried apart his eyelids to see Lucy kneeling on the ground in front of him, hands outstretched and cradling his face.

_("evil is here, sir – the stink of evil")_

"Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

_But I hurt you._

_("nothing's gonna")_

"You aren't here," he managed to choke out. "You're not real."

She brushed the pad of her thumb over his cheekbone, biting her lip when he cringed at the touch. "What's more real than this, Benjamin?"

"I killed you," he growled, unsure if he was attempting to convince her or himself. "You're not in this afterlife. I looked everywhere. You aren't here. I don't know where the hell you are but it certainly isn't with me. And this isn't even how you – "

He couldn't finish the sentence.

– _without hesitation he slits her throat and springs the trapdoor, letting her tumble down to the bakehouse –_

"How I looked when I died?" she concluded for him. "Not all souls appear here as they did when they passed on. You know that."

No. She wasn't real. He would have found her if she was. He couldn't be wrong. Not about this.

"Why not?" she said, as though in response to his thoughts, and for an absurd moment his devil knelt in front of him rather than his wife. "You have been wrong before, my darling."

"Even if you were here – " which she _wasn't_ – she wasn't, she wasn't, she wasn't " – you wouldn't want anything to do with me."

She shook her head, as though unable to understand his words. "I am – and I _do_."

"But I – "

"I know that you killed me, Ben. It doesn't change my feelings towards you. I was not myself at that time. I could hardly recognize myself. It would be foolish to expect you to have recognized me."

_He brushes his fingers across her face, down the side of her check, along her neck and across the incision, re-painting the pattern of splattered rubies with his forever-stained fingertips –_

"So – " she hesitated, tilting her head gently to the left as she bit her lip, and all at once he remembered how often he had seen her unconsciously strike such a pose " – if you still love me – "

"Of course I do."

Her eyes shone deep and blue like the vast sky, like the limitless sea. "Then I see no reason why we shouldn't spend the rest of eternity together."

_("Lucy . . . I've come home again . . .")_

Sweeney shook his head, his mind swimming with too many thoughts, his shattered heart beating in too many fragments. She couldn't be real. She couldn't still love him.

"Oh, Benjamin," she sighed, somehow filling the sound with both despair and grace. "How can I prove to you that I'm telling the truth?" Her fingers, still leaning on his cheeks, stroked his face with the slightest absent gesture. Another hesitation – then she closed the space between them and brushed her lips to his.

And with that one movement – that one touch – so achingly familiar and unfamiliar – all of his doubts were gone.

Rarely did Sweeney Todd allow himself to surrender to his emotions, but he could do nothing else in that moment. His arms leapt forward and embraced her; he smothered every inch of skin of her face with kisses, murmuring her name between every few; he breathed in her fragrance. She wrapped her arms around his neck but did not move any more than that.

At last he went still, merely cradling her in his arms as they continued to kneel on the clouds. "Lucy," he whispered into her hair, "Lucy . . ."

"Shh. I'm right here."

"I never thought that you would be – that we could be – together – "

"I know, my love. But we are. Everything is going to be fine." She drew away and rose to her feet, entangling the fingers of her left hand with his right and pulling. "Come with me."

The tugging around his midsection entirely forgotten, he listened to the pull on his hand and followed its pressure further down the corridor.

xxx

"This isn't gonna accomplish anything, y'know. Mr. Todd doesn't give two hoots 'bout me. He doesn't give two hoots 'bout anyone. Come to think of it, I don't think he gives _one_ hoot 'bout anyone either. 'Cept for Lucy, of course, but she isn't on Is anyhow, so that doesn't make no difference. But really, you going ahead and doing whatever you're planning on doing isn't going to be making a bit of difference in his life – death – oh, hell, whatever this's called anymore."

_Shut up, shut up,_ she scolded herself. Her babbling was only serving to expose how anxious she was – the pace of her chatter more fevered than ever, her cockney accent as prominent as could be, as it always became when she was riding the tides of high emotions. And Turpin was remaining entirely apathetic to her words, only continuing to push her towards wherever his intended destination was.

But she could not stop jabbering.

"Getting rid of me is probably the best thing you could do for Mr. Todd, now I think on it. Lord knows he's been trying to do that since our deaths – y'do know he murdered me, don't you?"

That drew Turpin's attention to her for a moment, iron eyes narrowed beneath his eyebrows.

"Oh, yes," she went on, "don't look so surprised – killed me with his own hands, he did – "

_stop talking stop talking stop_

" – didn't realize that'd Lucy gone loopy and been wandering the streets and whoring herself out, see, 'cause he believed she'd died – "

_stop stop stop fuck Nellie close your mouth_

" – and so he killed her – not purposefully, y'know, didn't recognize her 'til too late – but then he – he – "

But the rest of her words became arrested in her mouth as her eyes set upon what lay ahead, and all too quickly it became clear exactly what Judge Turpin had in mind for her.

– _it burns, it burns, it burns, oh God does it burn – _

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive," Turpin mocked. "It is all suddenly so clear to me, Mrs. Lovett. So you, in your infatuation, decided to usurp the position of Todd's wife without telling him that his former marriage vows still held true? How very – thoughtful. But I hope you realize this changes nothing in my plans; I still intend to carry through with my original intention. It's clear he thinks highly of you – or at least your body. In any case, he will certainly be affected to some degree if you are no longer here."

Nellie could hardly understand him, could hardly hear him

_and if it didn't hurt as much as the fires of hell then she might find it ironically amusing that she is to die by her own oven_

over the roar of remembered sights and sounds and sensations threatening to engulf her, and she told herself to stop, knew she must stop, knew she must focus, but

_the flames stroke her_

she could not. Logic forsook her; she struggled wildly against Turpin's hold on her.

"Afraid of fire, are we?" he drawled in her ear, not releasing his grip. "But aren't you a baker? Aren't you used to pyre?"

It was true. She was accustomed to fire, and even despite the way in which she had died, using an oven on Is had never bothered her. But this fire was different – larger, brighter – spread across a savannah and yet self-contained, unspreading yet unshrinking – more terrible and more beautiful than any inferno should or could be.

And there seemed to be creatures of some sort trapped inside of it, for every so often a shape – an indistinct image made from the flames – would flit by, and it would spark and leap as though trying to escape, only to be wrenched back in – and it reminded her too much of how she had not been able to escape, could never escape, even when she knew he was about to throw her into the flames there had been no chance of escape

– _the flames devour her –_

_Focus, damn you. Pull yourself together. If there's ever been a time to put on a façade and lie to everyone, including yourself, this is it._

Her mind continued to churn, thrashing and spitting and retching in frantic protest, but her flailing limbs went slack, her shudders subsided.

"That's better," Turpin murmured, and he again began to push her forward, drawing nearer to the flames.

– _the flames ravish her body –_

"You never answered my question," said Nellie, swallowing the rising bile in her throat. "What exactly do these fires do? I mean, we can't exactly die twice, y'know. I don't see what actual harm they could cause."

"You might be surprised at the amount of harm they can cause."

When he didn't continue, she asked, "Care to elaborate on that thought?"

– _the flames ravish her body like the witch burning at the stake that she is –_

"It is unknown precisely what the fires do to a soul." His tone was calm, detached, as though telling a child a simple bedtime story. "Some believe that they completely destroy any spirit that enters. Others believe it is a direct gateway to hell. Whatever the true function is, no spirit who has entered ever returned to Is."

"I think you're lying," she told him. "All the known dangers in the nethers are guarded by a spirit – and there's no one here but us."

"I already took care of them, my dear." She could hear the smile in his voice as he said this and it took all her control to suppress her shudder; she hoped he couldn't smell the sweat running in rivulets down her body.

"Like I told you before," she said, "Mr. Todd's not going to care if I'm gone. And even if for some absurd reason he did, y'do realize he'd retaliate and get rid of you too?"

"If he gets any thoughts of revenge in his head, I will be ready," Turpin dismissed. "You underestimate my intelligence, Mrs. Lovett. I have thought all of this through, I assure you."

– _and there's pain, pain, so much pain, pain beyond pain –_

She could think of nothing else to say or do. There was nothing to do to change Turpin's mind. Nothing to do to change a mind so hell-bent on revenge.

_Why are you so upset by getting thrown into the fires? It's not as though you love the afterlife all that much. Maybe this will be easier. Maybe this will be better. _

_What are you so afraid of?_

Her heart trembled, missed a beat.

_I'm afraid of living without him._

– _all the while she is staring, staring into his eyes, and they stare back at her, so dark and so angry and so hateful and – damn them – still so beautiful . . ._

xxx

Sweeney and Lucy walked hand in hand along the hallway of clouds. He didn't know where she was leading him to, nor did he question it. He would go wherever she did.

Her pace increased, forcing him to pick up speed as well. Soon they were running together, flying across the floor, feet barely grazing the ground of clouds, their surroundings blurring. Laughter bubbled up from her throat and graced the air, and he couldn't help but laugh along with her despite the way the laughs grated against his throat from disuse, for it was all so wonderful and beautiful.

The world encompassed only them. Just as it used to.

The surroundings had fogged so much as they ran that, when they stopped, Sweeney had to pause for a moment, leaning over with his hands on his knees and breathing hard as the world spun back into focus. They stood in a small room with no decorations save for a bed, a bureau, and a curtained window. Everything here, too, was made from clouds.

"This isn't Is, is it?" he questioned her.

Her forehead rumpled prettily. "I don't know what you mean, but this _is _my home."

"Then where are we?"

"My home, love, as I said." She smiled at him. "Yours too, I hope, now that you've found me." She strolled towards the window and pulled back one curtain, peering out through the panes. "I've waited so long to see you . . . why didn't you come when you first passed on?"

"Wh-what?"

She dropped the curtain, letting it fall back over the glass, and turned to face him. "You haven't been alive for some time, my darling. Why did it take you so long to come here?"

He darted his eyes around the room, trying to piece everything together. "I – was in another afterlife. The 'Is' I mentioned to you. And I have been trying to find you – every circle – erm, day – but I couldn't. . . . But then I heard you singing, and I wandered towards the sound, and somehow I ended up here . . ."

He had been looking for something before he had heard Lucy's voice, he recalled now, but he could no longer remember what that something was. It must not have been important.

"How did you know to wait for me?" he asked her. "How did you know I was dead?"

She gestured to the window. "I saw."

His brow furrowed. "Does that – is that window a passage to Earth?"

She ran the curtain material absently through her fingers. "No, not a passage. Merely a window. I cannot touch – but I can watch." She smiled, almost hesitantly. "Our daughter is beautiful."

Instantly he stood beside her, yanking back the curtain, but it only revealed Earth's star-sprinkled sky. "How do I – "

Lucy leaned towards him, her hair rippling with the movement and spraying her fragrance through his nostrils: he breathed in daisies and green tea. Eyes closed, she touched her palm to the glass, and as she removed her hand, the scene changed from the night sky to the interior of what he recognized as Johanna and Anthony's home. A man and woman that for a brief moment he did not recognize sat together on a settee. A gurgling, rosy-cheeked, dark-eyed baby perched on the woman's lap.

"His name is Benjamin," Lucy whispered in his ear. Bewildered, his eyes shot to hers. She offered the explanation, "Turpin never told her much about us, but he did let slip our names."

_That's not my name,_ he found himself thinking, and was instantly flooded by shame.

_It's the name of her father. The father she never had – the one she _should _have had._

He took one last look at his little lamb and her family, then released the curtain, letting it fall back into place. Johanna, Anthony, and Benjamin would be fine without him. He didn't want to live in the past any longer. He wanted to embrace his present.

He slipped his hand into Lucy's and she smiled up at him. Suddenly overwhelmed by all that had happened in such a short span of time – the disembodied voice singing, the tree, the journey here, the place made of clouds, at last finding his wife – he sank upon the bed. She sat down beside him.

"Where are we?" he asked her.

"Home, Benjamin. Just like I told you."

"But where? You say this isn't Is – is this – " His lips couldn't form the word 'heaven.' No God, even if He did exist and was a forgiving being, would allow a demon into paradise.

"I don't know," she confessed. "None of the other souls that I've met seem to know either – but we don't speak to one another much. We mostly stay in our own rooms, watching the outside. It doesn't seem like heaven here, though." She gave him a wan smile. "You would have shown up long ago if it was. But it's certainly not hell; everything's very pleasant here . . ."

Shouldn't she know where she was by now? Shouldn't this place at least have a name, a purpose other than to sit and look at what was no longer yours? Heaven wouldn't be like this, heaven wouldn't force souls into near solitude – and his Lucy wouldn't be punished, she was not the sinner – no higher being of any sort would want this miserable fate for her . . .

Unless . . . unless none of this was real. Unless he was imagining all of this.

Lucy again twined her fingers in his. The cold metal of her wedding ring rubbed against his skin.

"Imagination, reality," she said, yet again in response to everything he had not said aloud, with a little smile and shake of her head. "Does it really make a difference, Ben? We're together again."

He looked at her. "Of course it makes a difference." He paled. "Does that mean – that you aren't real . . .?"

She squeezed his fingers. "I'm just as real as you are."

"How real am I?" he questioned no one in particular, shrouding his head in his hands.

Gently, she peeled his fingers from his face, lacing both them with her own. "Benjamin, please. We've discussed this. You're as real as anything else. We both are. I don't know how to convince you of that."

"Convince me with logic," he muttered. "Sense."

Her laughs tinkled in the air like wind chimes. "Haven't you learned that you can't apply logic and sense to matters in the afterlife?" Her face was drawing nearer; he could see every faint freckle on her face, every eyelash lining her gaze. "Haven't you learned that you can't apply logic and sense to matters of the heart?"

Her lips found his again, soft, caring, melting away the snow of worry and reasoning, leaving only love in its wake. She pressed nearer to him as one of his hands settled against the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair, needing her as close as possible.

Because she was right. There was nothing more real than this.

_But . . ._

But nothing.

_But . . ._

But there was something different. Being with her . . . her taste, the delicate fragrance, how she looked, the way she smiled, her touch . . . it was not like he remembered. It was not the same.

_But . . ._

No. It was the same. He was what was different.

He pulled away.

Lucy's brow creased. Her fingers lighted on her lips, as though this could ease her confusion. "Benjamin?"

Sweeney ran a hand through his hair, looked at his knees, touched his other hand to his stomach. His insides were jerking and pulling strangely – it felt vaguely familiar, as though he had once felt this before in another life – but he did not know what it meant now. "There's something wrong with this."

She sighed. "What do you mean?"

"I don't – don't know . . ."

She curled her arms around his neck, cuddled her head against his shoulder

_locks of maroon rust kiss his collar bone as she buries her face in the crook of his neck_

and Sweeney trembled. Did she have to steal _everything_ from his wife?

"This is all that you wanted, isn't it?" Lucy breathed against his skin. "To regain what Turpin stole from you? To be together again – forever and always?"

It was.

_But . . ._

"Benjamin?"

"That's not who I am," he growled.

"Of course it is," she soothed. "You may have changed, but you can't change who you _are_. You are and always will be the Benjamin Tam Barker that I fell in love with."

He shook his head, the tip of his chin brushing her scalp. "That man is dead."

"No, Ben, he's not. He's the one who always hoped without hope that one day his family might be put back together. He may be buried far down within you, but he's still there." Was it his imagination, or did she sound as though she were trying to convince him as well as herself? "With time, I'm sure that he'll come back just as he used to be – "

"Lucy," said Sweeney, an edge of desperation – of a need to make her understand – in his tone, as he pulled back to look into her eyes, "I'm not that man anymore."

_And I don't think I want to be._

The thought struck him hard and set the crumbles of his heart quivering even more so than the wounded look on his wife's face as she pulled away from him. _No._ This was what he wanted. She was what he wanted. More than any other being, more than life, more than anything, he wanted his wife back, had wanted nothing more than to be with her since arriving on Is, since meeting her.

To realize, to even entertain the notion that he did not – it was ludicrous –

"You're still Benjamin," Lucy insisted, tears puddling in her eyes. "You're still the man I married – and loved – and waited for . . ."

_But you didn't wait for me,_ he couldn't say out loud. His hands were clammy, his midsection jerking with those same strange and invisible pulls, his chest tight, too tight for the raging storm within him. Every single action he committed, endured, waited through – each lash of the whip, each bob upon the ocean as he clung to the flotsam before Anthony found him, each throat he cut, each man spread upon the alter of his barber chair, each morning of each circle spent in search of her room – it was all for her. Always.

_But you can never see her without looking at her damn photographs. Face it, Todd. You don't remember her. _

His chest tightened even further, his lungs fighting for air.

_So what exactly are you still clinging to?_

"Benjamin?" she said quietly, uncertainly, into the silence.

He pressed a hand over his abdomen; the jerks within it were growing stronger. And then he remembered:

_Nellie._

"Benjamin?" she asked again.

Swallowing, Sweeney placed a hand on Lucy's cheek, leaning in to place as careful of a kiss as he could to her forehead. "You love Benjamin Barker – not his demon counterpart."

Her tears spilled over. "Wh-what are you – don't be silly, Ben – B-Ben . . ."

He wiped the droplets from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "I'm sorry." He could not remember when he had last said those words. He felt dizzy with confusion. With understanding.

She leaned into his touch, nuzzling her face against his fingers, reaching up with her own hand to cup the back of his palm. He tried to move his hand and wipe away her fresh tears, but she would not let go of him.

She could not let go.

"Benjamin," she whispered through short breaths scattered by her sobs, "don't you love me?"

He turned his hand around in hers so their palms met and their fingers entwined. "I love who you were, Lucy – who we were . . . and I always will."

She closed her eyes, wincing, bracing herself. "But . . ."

"But we've both changed," said Sweeney. "For worse or better, I don't know. We're not who we used to be."

She inhaled, trying to calm herself. He released her fingers – she did not try to stop him this time – and wiped away her lingering tears. Between quick, sharp inhales, she choked out, "If . . . if you're sure, Ben . . . if this is what you want. I want what's best for you – I want you to be happy."

Sweeney rose to his feet. The room spun around him as he stood – spun in his lingering shock and horror at himself and what he was about to do and who he had become – but his feet were steady as he turned and walked out of her room, down the long corridor of clouds.

From behind, two slender arms embraced him, wrapping around his middle, palms pressing against his chest. He stopped walking as her familiar soft lips pressed against the back of his neck and her scent clouded his nostrils. His eyes closed and his arms reached up, hands settling atop hers over where his heart had once resided.

Was he really doing this? Was he really leaving behind the woman he had searched for, lived for, wanted, needed for nearly twenty years? No, he was not who he once was – and yes, he could only remember of her what his old photographs showed him – but couldn't he learn to remember? Couldn't they recreate what had once been, together? Or create something new, something better and more beautiful?

"Good-bye, my love," Lucy whispered, lips shifting against his skin with the words. He felt a single tear fall upon the nape of his neck, but no more than the one. "I won't ever forget you."

No, he realized, gripping her hands in his. No, that wasn't possible. They couldn't recreate the past, and neither could they create something new, not when together they would be forever trapped in what once was. It didn't mean that he needed to completely forget her; she was still inexplicably important to his history and his identity. To move on did not mean to erase everything . . . only to build more.

He brought Lucy's hands up to his mouth and tenderly kissed her knuckles. Opening his eyes, he stepped out of her grasp and continued down the corridor.

He turned his head over his shoulder only once as he walked: Lucy stood in front of her door, tears sparkling in her eyes but not falling. With effort, she lifted a hand and waved at him. He nodded in return, then faced forward and broke into a run, his surroundings blurring together as they had when he'd arrived here – not simply blurring, but dissolving, disappearing, the colors running together like spilled paint –

And then it was gone. He was back in the netherlands, lying on his back in the grass, and all else had vanished.

Except for the tugging around his midsection.

Breathing hard, he closed his eyes, heart throbbing as he grappled with all that had just taken place. He'd had Lucy once again. He'd held her in his arms.

He'd let her go.

_But . . ._

He didn't regret it.

xxx

"Well, Mrs. Lovett, I suppose this is farewell. " Her back was still pressed to Turpin's chest, so she wasn't able to see him, but she could hear the sneer in his voice. "I do hope you have a pleasant trip, wherever you are going."

He shoved her closer to the capering flames, close enough for her throat to constrict and her eyes to sting. Blind panic flooded over her every sense

_so much smoke so much heat so much pain_

at being so near the raging inferno. Unable to think clearly, reacting on pure animal instinct, she jammed her elbow into the soft flesh of Turpin's stomach – he gasped – and she wasted no time in jerking her right foot off the ground and connecting it solidly with his groin. This time he choked with pain and released her. She sprang away from him, tearing across the ground, running as fast as she could to wherever she could.

But she wasn't fast enough. Turpin's body slammed into hers from behind, stealing her breath and knocking them both to the ground. He grabbed her by the arms again and attempted to drag her to her feet, but she thrashed around so violently he couldn't manage it. They wrestled for control on the ground, so close to the fire that its flames danced in and out of the corners of her vision, its smoke throttling her senses and making her wild

_the fingers of flames twist and curl, beckoning her_

and finally he succeeded in pulling her to her feet again

_hell is beckoning_

and her gaze was instantly assaulted with glaring, blinding yellows and oranges; she closed her eyes but they still coated her vision, her mind.

There was no escape. And it was time for her to accept that.

"No – more," Turpin hissed between gasping breaths. "No – more – "

"_Let go of her."_

Her eyes flew open.

"Impeccable timing as always, barber," Turpin drawled.

And then he pushed Nellie into the fires.

The flames embraced her at once, thrilled at being reunited after so long. A scream ripped from her throat

– _it burns, it burns, oh God does it burn –_

but she could offer no other form of protest to the intense pain, pain she knew so well, pain that ripped through to the core of her being. She thought nothing, knew nothing. Just blinding agony. Just that she was trapped.

– _and it's eating her up – _

The fleeting shapes that she had seen earlier – creatures of fire, contours of swaying bodies, leering faces, all made of nothing more than fire and yet so real, so vivid – whirled past her. They made noises only she could hear, calling her name, taunting and giggling and loving her all at once. For demons always recognize one of their own.

– _devouring her –_

They pulled her deeper, further into the fire. And she understood without understanding that they meant to drag her to the depths of hell.

– _the fire is everywhere –_

Her strength ebbed; her screams grew soft. There was no escape and she was tired of this half-life. True death had come to embrace her at last; it was time she accepted it. Life, as she well knew, was for the alive.

_His lips glissade down the side of her neck, slow and sure and soft, as he sits behind her atop her mattress. Her dress sits low on her shoulders, and he pulls it lower still as he toys with the fringe. She closes her eyes and leans back against his chest, breath already strained from anticipation. As his mouth meets the edge of her collarbone, his right arm slips around her waist, fingers wafting from her stomach to her chest, coming to rest over her left breast. _

_He goes still._

_Her heart beats in his hand._

"_You're alive," he murmurs to the point where her collarbone meets her shoulder. All lust has left him; she can feel it in the way his muscles are coiled and pressed against her. It's been replaced by a new emotion, different yet equally intense, that she can't identify._

_She can't help but laugh despite her admittedly still labored breathing; her lust has yet to abate. "Damn right, love – quite alive as I ever was, I'd say." She extends an arm, fingers fumbling behind her until they find his clean-shaven face. Her hand brushes across his cheek and pauses as it touches his neck, feeling the gentle pulsation beneath the skin. "And y'want to know something, dear? You're alive too."_

_His head shifts so his face rests in the crook of her shoulder. He inhales deep before whispering, admitting, a confession so quiet she's not sure if it's meant for her, "Sometimes I forget." _

Her body spasmed in a surge of electric emotion – of desperation – of realization.

– _the fire is everywhere –_

There was no escape.

– _and his eyes are everywhere –_

But

– _no_ _–_

she would try to escape, she had to try, there was so much pain around her, too much pain

– _pain – _

but the fire hadn't swallowed her whole yet, there was still hope

_please let me see your face one last time_

and she lunged with every bit of strength and love she possessed – and it was enough to send her out of the fire and crumbling stomach-down against the ground, panting, shaking, half of her body blistered and burned, excruciating aches shredding every inch of her – but she was moving, breathing. Existing.

From somewhere above her a howl of rage echoed. Hands snatched at her arms, and she shrieked as the fingers gripped her raw burnt flesh – then a familiar sticky liquid splashed across her skin as the smell of copper twined up her nostrils – _blood _– but even though she knew something had cut her, she felt no pain – so covered in pain, she was past pain, beyond pain –

The hands let go of her as wheezing breaths filled the air

_he's cut my throat at last – didn't I tell you, Turpin, didn't I tell you that he's never cared about me_

but pain had made her delusional; she found herself laughing into the dirt even as it rubbed into her fresh wounds and heightened their sting to an unparalleled amount.

_I never thought it was possible to die twice. _

Giggling, the world swimming, she rolled onto her back and opened her eyes to see if she could glimpse for one final time the man who had murdered her body twice and her heart more times than she could count. And even though everything around her was whirlpooling she could see him clear as day, and –

Her laughter stopped. Her eyes widened.

Perhaps ten feet away, Sweeney Todd stood, the fires behind him bathing him in alternating shadows and lights, face contorted with rage and dripping with blood. His arms were outstretched, his left hand clutching the collar of Turpin's robes, his right clutching one of his silver friends as it dripped with rubies – Turpin's rubies – Turpin's blood –

It wasn't her blood that she was coated with. It was Turpin's. Turpin had grabbed her arms – and Sweeney had cut his throat – and Turpin's blood had showered over her as he released his hold upon her –

Sweeney hadn't hurt her – Sweeney had saved her –

Blood gushed from Turpin's neck as Sweeney slashed at him, again and again and again with no indication of stopping, as though his need for revenge ran so deep it would be impossible to ever satiate. The red fluid sprayed over him as he cut repeatedly into the judge's throat, mutilating the flesh beyond recognition, just as he had the night he had killed Turpin – but on that night, she had not seen him in the midst of his revenge, had not seen the fury and passion and need with which Sweeney cut into the man, had not known fury and passion and need could run so deep –

Somehow she managed to stand up and totter towards the both of them, though neither noticed: Turpin seemed to have lost too much blood to be aware of anything, and Sweeney was too lost in his bloodletting. What had once been a neck was now ribbons of flesh, strips of sinew that could not support a skull; Turpin's head lolled against one shoulder, mouth rasping in pathetic breaths, eyes glossing over, blood oozing over his clothes and spraying over Sweeney's face and draining him dry. And still Sweeney cut into him.

Just when she thought he would never cease, Sweeney dropped his fettling knife – it hit the ground with a murmured _thud_ – and shoved Turpin into the fires. The flames enveloped him and he vanished from view.

It was only then – only when it was all over – _finally_, it was over – that Nellie realized how badly she was trembling.

Sweeney stared at the smoldering flames, their light dancing over his face as it dripped with blood, as though he belonged within the fire just as much as she. His expression was blank. Slowly, he reached up a blood-covered hand to his even bloodier face. Then his head turned to the side and his eyes found hers.

But then Nellie screamed and his gaze shot back to the fires. It wasn't over: Turpin had reappeared as one of the many flickering shapes in the fire. But unlike the other shapes that flitted wildly about, he was unmoving, staring, leering, teeth bared.

He lunged towards them, arms outstretched. Without thinking Nellie grabbed Sweeney's arm and yanked him backwards – but then Turpin was sucked into the flames and disappeared from sight.

She waited for a moment, breath bated – but this time, he did not reappear. Judge Alexander Turpin was gone forever.

Belatedly, she realized that her right arm – even though it was her left side that had been burned – was in excruciating pain. She glanced down to see Sweeney's fingers clenched like a shackle around her forearm. They had both pulled the other away from Turpin when he had leapt forward. They had both tried to protect each other.

Their eyes met, and a thousand words without form flowed between them before their gazes dropped to the ground.

"You're hurt," Sweeney growled.

All at once, the pain that she had been suppressing in her overwhelming panic swept over her. She swayed on the spot. Sweeney caught her. Incapable of much else, she leaned against his chest – Turpin's blood, coating the both of them, smeared further with the movement – and let him melt into the ground to take them both back to Is. Black insects began to creep over her eyes, feeding on her pain, numbing it, pulling her towards blissful oblivion . . .

"Eleanor. Stop scratching."

When she opened her eyes, squinting through the remaining insects, she found that she was back inside her room, lying on her cot. Sweeney – still a bloodied mess – stood over her. He seized her right hand and jerked it away from her face. His brow was knitted.

"Wait here – don't move."

He disappeared from view. What a clever trickster he was. She giggled to herself and rolled onto her side. Such a silly man.

_("half the fun is to plan")_

But he'd chased all the black insects away, and now there was nothing to mask the pain in; it swelled about her, within her, like creeks of fire streaming down her skin. Dead people shouldn't be able to feel this much pain. Maybe she wasn't dead. Maybe by dying for a second time, she'd been reborn. She let out another laugh. Reborn from the ashes of her own oven, just like a griffin – _no no, silly Nellie, a phoenix _– yes, a phoenix – except wives of the Devil shouldn't be allowed to fly –

Something snapped over her right hand and she cried out as her fingers was pulled away from her body and wrestled onto the mattress.

"Dammit, Eleanor, leave the burns alone – scratching will only make them worse."

She twisted onto her back, grinning widely when she saw Sweeney above her again. He looked so grumpy; why was that?

"Hullo, love," she said. Her speech sounded garbled, strange.

Jaw set, he sat down on her cot and held out a tumbler to her. The redolence of incense and hazelnut wound up her nose. "Drink this."

She tried to lift her hand to wave him away, but found she couldn't. "Don't want any."

"Eleanor. Drink it."

But her delirium had not affected her propensity to be stubborn. "'M'not gonna drink any and you can't make me. You can be mysterious all you want 'bout it, but I know what that is. 'M'not gonna put any opium in me. Addles with your head, it does. I 'member when Mrs. Mooney got consumption and had to take some of this laudanum – 't'was so hard for her to get off it – and I'm not gonna be dependant on nothing no more – "

Grabbing her right shoulder, Sweeney hauled her into a half-sitting position with her back against the wall. He moved his hand to her face and opened her mouth – yet now, as opposed to when he'd pulled her upright, his touch was gentle. His hands were never gentle on her. His hands were never gentle at all, in fact, the one exception being when he was shaving a customer – really shaving, not killing, that is. She'd so often longed for him to be gentle and loving with her the way he was with his razors.

That he chose to be caring with her now – after she'd just nearly been burned to death a second time – seemed very funny.

"Stop giggling," he growled, attempting and failing to tip the contents of the cup down her throat, for her chortles made her mouth shake.

She tried to obey and stop moving, but hacked when the first drops touched her tongue. "Bitter," she gasped out, attempting to twist away from him.

"Drink it," he insisted. "It'll help your pain. Trust me."

_That's the problem, my love. I always have._

She opened her mouth. He gave her the rest of the laudanum, set the cup on her nightstand, then helped her lie down again. She was about to ask him why he wanted to take away her pain when all he ever had wanted to do was deepen it, but was lulled into darkness before she could do so.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I promised this chapter would be meatier than the last, no? ;] In any case, I hope you enjoyed this chapter's journey, even if Sweeney and Nellie didn't.

Reviews are, as always, love.

Anonymous review replies:

_katkarasininen_: Glad to hear the chapter brightened your day! I hope you enjoyed this one, too, and thank you for R-&-R-ing!

_Emma_: Hello, m'dear! Thanks for checking out my story, and I'm pleased that you're enjoying it so far. Nellie dying while pregnant is a really interesting idea, but I'm not sure that it fits with this current story; for one, I'm mostly editing now, not adding new content, and for another, souls without bodies cannot be pregnant for technical reasons we don't need to fully get into, haha. If you're intrigued by stories with Pregnant!Nellie, however, my story _No Pity in Her Heart_ features such a premise. Please excuse the shameless self-promotion for my other fics, btw. xD Anyhow, thanks for reviewing!

_Lady Musket_: Haha. Everyone IS suspicious, darling. It's just the (after)life we live in. ;] Thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_thelovelyflorencelovett_: Thank you very much, m'dear! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, too. ^^


	29. Help Me

_Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. – James Baldwin_

xxx

"Mister – Mister Todd?" Eleanor slurred, half-stirring from unconsciousness. She shifted her head towards him, eyes smeary with sleep and opiates as they attempted to seek him out. "What're you doing?"

"Hush. Go back to sleep."

"'M'not – " Her words were interrupted by a choked moan and her left arm, which he'd gingerly touched, thrashed away from him.

He winced and fought against the alien emotion threatening to engulf him as he fumbled to pour more laudanum into the cup beside her nightstand. "Here – drink this." He parted her lips and tipped the drug down. The laudanum wouldn't heal her, but it would at least numb the pain. If pain as deep as hers could be numbed, that was – and he wasn't entirely sure it could.

She had been within the fires for the minutest fraction of a second possible – which he supposed was some sort of dark blessing from the fates that so reveled in tormenting them – but by no standards did that mean she hadn't sustained any injuries. The burns ran all along her left side, an unruly motif of splotches, from her forehead to her feet. Some were only a faint pink, others were shriveled and blackened. They disfigured almost exactly half her body – as though she were truly Queen Hel ruling over her dead souls.

"I need to clean the blood off you and then wrap your injuries," he told her as she sagged back into the cot.

"Why," she murmured, eyes fixed on some indistinct point around his left ear.

"To help you."

She gave his ear a slow smile. "I think I'm past help, Mr. T."

Noticing that her right hand was snaking towards the burn on her left shoulder – she kept trying to scratch at her singes – he grabbed it and pushed her fingers back against the mattress. "Stop that. You'll be fine."

"Alright," she agreed dreamily. "But I don't see why you can't clean the blood off yourself first."

"Because I'm getting it off you first. Now be quiet."

He again took her left arm in his grasp, dipped a cloth into the bucket of water sitting on the floor, and dabbed at a smear of Turpin's blood. It would have been better to clean her off earlier, when they first returned to Is – sitting in dried blood for so long probably wasn't the best idea – but he knew that she wouldn't have been able to tolerate the pain of fabric brushing against her burns before a dose of the laudanum had settled into her system and numbed the injuries.

Eleanor flinched several times as he worked, but didn't pull away. Methodically, slowly, he cleaned off the judge's blood, then swabbed at each of her wounds.

Whatever he might say aloud to her, he didn't know if she'd be fine. Found it hard to believe she could ever be fine again. Some of her burns ran nearly to the bone. True, they were dead, and thus could sustain no real injuries, but if he knew and she knew that these burns were of the sort that, typically, one might never recover from . . .

_This is your fault. You could have arrived sooner. You could have saved her._

_But Lucy . . ._

His fingers slipped from her skin. He still could not believe he had found his wife in the afterlife. Could not believe that, after so many years of missing and longing and needing her, he had left her behind. His heart ached from it even now, but not in the way that it should. It ached not because he regretted leaving her – but because he didn't regret it. Because he knew he damn well_ should_ regret it.

_But what you told her is true. You aren't the person she loves. You're not that man anymore._

Then who was he?

Eleanor cried out when his fingers ghosted over a withered burn upon her left cheekbone. He soothed her as he put another swallow of laudanum into her mouth, murmuring, "Drink it. It's okay. Drink it. It'll help."

She choked down the liquid, eyeing him, and he couldn't tell if she saw him there or not. He nudged her back down into a prostrate position on the cot.

"'S'strange, isn't it?" she asked in a slow tone, after a pause.

"What is?" he said distractedly, putting a hand against her perspiring forehead before peeling off her blanket, revealing her bare body. He averted his eyes from her form – not for her nudity, but for how each and every one of her singes was now exposed to him.

"Mmm. Maybe strange is the wrong word. Ironic, perhaps. How you've gone from throwing me into fire to saving me from it." A detached smile stretched across her lips as she cuddled her head further into her pillow. "Funny, ain't it?"

No. It wasn't.

"Not that you really saved me," she continued in that same lax tone, each syllable disturbingly prolonged. "I saved myself, y'know. You didn't pull me out of those fires – I did that all on my own. No damsel-in-distress nonsense for me. Not that I don't appreciate you arriving, love. And not that I think I did it all myself neither. I certainly never cut Turpin's throat. I mean, no doubt he would've gone after me again if you hadn't slaughtered the hell outta him. Wonder where he's gone off to now, anyway."

"He's gone," said Sweeney. "His soul was extinguished."

"How d'you come to know that?" she questioned. "Could've easily been a passageway to hell, them fires. Not like there was a sign or nothing."

"I . . . I've known about the fires since shortly after arriving here. I made a bargain with Officer Reyna Lovett. She only managed to get me out of my room by promising to destroy my spirit through those fires if I tried to exist on Is for two Earth years."

He had intended never to tell her this. Had intended for her to never found out about how deep his initial inability to really live after death ran, nor of his eventual weakness for failing to complete the bargain, his weakness in succumbing to the desire to live a life he did not deserve, just as the human race he once despised all desired.

And yet . . . as the words fell from his mouth, he did not regret their departure.

Eleanor only blinked once at this revelation. "But we've been dead longer than two Earth years . . . Toby was sixteen last I saw him – might even be seventeen by now – and we died when he was fourteen . . ."

"Yes," said Sweeney.

"So you decided not to complete this little bargain a year or so ago. You chose to keep living." Any other circle, this realization would have accompanied her giving him an overjoyed kiss upon the cheek, or a tight embrace, or at the very least a radiant smile. Today, neither her tone of voice nor her expression changed in the least.

"Existing," he responded in a mumble.

Her chin tilted slightly to the right. "Why'd you choose to go on existing?"

He made no reply.

"Well, can't say I much care where Turpin is, anyhow," Eleanor went on, as though they had never shifted topics, "so long as he's gone."

He couldn't have agreed more. Because, at last, Sweeney Todd was free.

That didn't explain why his heart felt so heavy.

Her hand drifted towards one of her burns again; he captured it between his palms before she could begin to scratch. "It were awful in those fires. All these demons dancing around me and pulling me towards hell. Think it was towards hell, at least. Felt like hell."

She sounded so calm as she spoke of it – too calm. It unnerved him.

"You were in there less than a second," he muttered.

"Oh, was it really?" From her casual inflection, one might have thought she was questioning when tea-time was. "Seemed to last an eternity."

_There's so much red clouding his vision it's a miracle he can see the tip of his nose, nevermind several feet ahead to where the judge is tussling with his she-devil in front of a fire that is a size unlike any he's ever seen before._

_And it's even more of a miracle that he can pry his jaws apart far enough to snarl,_ "Let go of her."

_The judge sees him. Shows his teeth in a carnal grin. "Impeccable timing as always, barber."_

_The judge shoves her into the fires. _

_A hideous creature rises from hibernation within his chest – a creature that feels nothing but rage and pain and the lust of revenge – a creature that, somehow, also feels terror. Feels it now to the point where it's intolerable. To the point where he's out of his senses with fear._

_He leaps towards her but – and he has no idea how it's possible, how she's done it – she's already freed herself from the flames and is tumbling face-first to the ground – he moves to help her up but the judge is lunging towards her, grabbing her blistered arms to throw her to the flames again –_

_And rage dominates the tormented creature, propelling the barber to hurtle instead at the judge, his hand plunging into his pocket to retrieve his fettling knife. His fingers close around the handle, his arm snaps out, and then the blade is at the judge's throat._

_The judge's blood is just as beautiful as he remembers, but it's not enough, not nearly enough – he needs to see more of it – he needs the blood to run in streams on the ground – he needs to wring the life out of this bastard bit by bit, sparing him no bit of mercy, no bit of agony –_

_He grabs the judge by the collar of his robes and hauls him away from the baker. The judge gurgles and grapples at the unrelenting grip in feeble protest, but this is paid no mind as again and again the blade slashes into his skin – a slit ear to ear, a stab at the jugular, a twisting wrench just above the collar bone, a slice through the throbbing left vein, an upward thrust at the hollow of the throat, another puncture to the jugular – silver and red staining eyes in a bloodied rain storm –_

_And as he at last shoves the judge into the fires and watches his soul perish within the pyre, a sense of relief that he's never known floods over him._

_It's over._

_("and life is for the alive")_

He stayed in Eleanor's room the remainder of the circle, spooning more laudanum into her mouth each time she began to whimper and wince from renewed pain, reapplying her bandages when they began to smell, sitting on her cot and watching her sleep to make sure her condition did not worsen.

She refused to eat anything that he gave her. He stole into her shop for a loaf of bread and tried to feed it to her, but she just sealed her lips and shook her head. He was too afraid of her choking on solid things to persist in the matter. She did, at least, let him ladle water into her mouth.

At one point, her limbs began to twitch and jerk in her sleep.

"Eleanor? Eleanor. _Eleanor_." He took her unburned shoulder and gave her a light shake.

Her eyes flew open and locked on his, revealing pupils magnified nearly enough to swallow their irises. She sat up. "Sweeney . . . why're you . . ." One hand curled into the fabric of his clothes as the other – the bandaged one – grazed his cheek, then clutched his robes' collar. He tried not to flinch. "So warm . . . you shouldn't be in here . . . you're not used to this . . ."

He had no idea what she was talking about – nor, he decided, did it matter. "Hush. Everything's fine."

She shook her head, clinging to him all the more when he attempted to prise her hands away from his robes. "No – it's too much for you . . . you should get out of here . . ." She drew in a hissing breath through her teeth and arched her back, pulling him tighter against her even as she whispered, "Please, love – get out." She pressed her face into his shoulder and whimpered.

In a desperate, confused attempt to assuage her, he massaged one hand over her back in slow circles, using his other hand to push away the hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. "I'm not going to leave, pet."

Her face shifted against his chest as she shook her head. "You've got to – you've got to – don't want the fire to get you . . ."

"Eleanor – " he spoke with new urgency " – there is no fire."

She let out a gasping sob, twisting the material of his robes between her fingers. "Get out now, love, please – I can manage it – I know how to – _oh _– " her body spasmed against him " – but you – you don't know fire as I do – "

Sweating, swallowing a rising knot of anxiety, Sweeney reached for the bottle of laudanum. He didn't know if her delusion was caused by her pain or by the drug – didn't know if he was about to make this better or worse – but he did not know what more to do. Did not know what more he could do.

He eased her away from him enough to put the flagon to her lips, not even bothering with pouring the contents into a separate cup.

"Here – this'll help, love, drink this – "

Even in the midst of her hallucination, she was able to recognize the drug – and, though she'd become very willing to drink it as of late, twisted her head away from it. "No. Won't take it. Don't want to be dependent on it."

"Eleanor – "

"No."

"Take it and I'll leave the fire," he promised, hating himself.

Her lips separated at once. He tipped the liquid into her mouth.

She seemed to forget his promise to leave – which he was thankful for, as he hadn't planned on going anywhere – for she again pressed her face into his shoulder, body trembling. Careful not to brush against her wounds, he wrapped his arms around her.

"It hurts so much," she breathed. "I can get used to it, but I can never be numb to it, no matter how many times . . . fire shouldn't hurt the Devil's wife this much . . . but it's so hot . . ."

"Shh. You'll be okay."

Her trembles began to decrease, her body relaxing. So the drug could still ease her pain. Good.

"You should go to sleep, Eleanor."

"It still burns . . ." Her whisper was choked, breath catching on the words. His mind jolted with the realization that strong-willed Nellie Lovett was crying into his shoulder.

He resumed rubbing his hand over her back. "It's okay." She made a noise between a laugh and a snort. "It's okay," he repeated. "It's okay. You're okay."

Maybe if he echoed those words enough, they could both believe them. They certainly had enough experience deluding themselves.

_In the daylight, it's easy to pretend. The light shines through the window panes, illuminates the room, sparkles on glass. Creates a glare in everyone's eyes. Washes out reality._

_At night, there's no blaze of light to hide behind. At night, he can't pretend hurting these others will bring his wife back. _

_That's not to say he doesn't wish it otherwise. That's not to say he doesn't try._

_She pretends in the daylight too. Smiles, laughs, spins about. Beams at everyone she sees. Shines like a beacon. _

_Tries to pretend it's not a lie. Tries to hide from him that her pillows are wet with tears._

_She pretends to not be miserable and he pretends to not be human._

_In the daylight, they pretend each other's façade is real._

_In the end, they can't fool each other._

_In the night, they have each other._

But that had not been enough to save either of them.

Eleanor's muscles rippled against his form in a spasm. Flooded by emotions he did not know how to name, did not like, and did not know how to control, Sweeney closed his eyes and pressed his face to the top of her head, burrowing in her hair. Without knowing where the words came from, he began to sing:

"_Nothing's gonna harm you . . . not while I'm around . . ."_

He felt her head twist against his shoulder, a momentary protest to his words . . . but then she relaxed against him, still shaking with sobs, but silent.

Deluding yourself always hurt afterwards. But not during.

_("no time like the present, eh?")_

xxx

"Are you sure about this purchase, sir?"

Sweeney's jaws clenched.

The shopkeeper, clearly noticing this, prattled on, "I'll sell it to you, of course, if you like – it's only just . . . well, I can't help but notice the people who come into my shop, sir. And you've bought four bottles of laudanum over the past eleven circles. This'll be your fifth. That's a lot, sir. I know isn't my business what my customers buy – "

"No," Sweeney snarled, "it isn't."

The man bowed his head. "Yes, sir. Very sorry." He accepted Sweeney's talent without another word.

Irate, Sweeney stalked through the wall, reappeared outside of Eleanor's room, and withdrew the key. He could have kept her room unlocked so as to simply walk through the wall to her room, of course, but he'd be damned if someone were to wander into her room and discover what'd happened to her. He'd managed to heed off all the souls who'd come to call so far – Eloise, Anatoly, Albert and Reyna Lovett, Lorraine, Griselda Mooney (why she'd come, he hadn't a clue, seeing as the pair did not get along), and a score of souls whose names he did not know – by feeding them a story of how she'd just been overworking herself and had come down with a horrid fever.

Which, really, wasn't a lie. As though her body was convinced she truly was trapped in flames, perspiration more often than not covered her like a second skin.

Her struggles for air tore at his ears the instant her door cracked open. Pushing the door wider revealed that she was half-sitting up, one leg thrown over the side of the bed, hair undone and sticking to her face, sheets twisted and clutched to her chest. He closed the door and rushed towards her.

"Eleanor. Eleanor. Look at me. _Eleanor_."

"It burns – " she gasped out.

By now, he was used to this behavior. It was part of the routine. Though that didn't make it any easier to witness.

"Here." He sat on the side of her bed and opened the new bottle of laudanum. "Drink this."

She moaned, eyes wide and lost as they stared at nothing and everything that he could not see. "It's everywhere – "

"Drink it, Eleanor. Drink it down. Yes – come on, swallow. Good."

She gagged down three mouthfuls of laudanum before falling backwards onto the mattress, blanket pulled up to her chin, fingers trembling as they held tight to the fabric. He pushed her curls off her moist forehead, one by one, and wiped away the film of sweat.

So focused on placing all his attention upon this simple task and not letting his mind stray, he didn't immediately notice that she was crying. His fingers dropped the cloth and moved from her forehead to her cheeks when he did, swabbing at the droplets. "Shh, Eleanor – "

She pushed his hand away, turning her head sideways as though ashamed of her tears. "Sorry –don't mean to – be always bawling like a babe," she said in-between sobbing breaths. "But don't you pay attention, love – don't mind me crying. I mean – we're dead, we can't – know reality anyhow . . . senses, tangible things – it's all gone . . ." She sniffled and drew the blanket closer to her chin, closing her eyes as two more drops dribbled from her eyelids. "These tears aren't even real."

He reached out for her again, wiping away the fresh tears. He ignored her attempts to push his hand away this time, keeping his fingers against her cheek until she opened her eyes and looked at him. "But the pain is."

He did not desire to delude her or himself today.

She closed her eyes again, the movement agonizingly slow as though it hurt to look at him, but one of her hands unhooked from her blanket and closed over his fingers resting against her cheek.

It took a few points, but at last she was asleep again. He used the opportunity to change her dressings, a process he'd discovered was far easier with her unconscious and not twitching every so often away from his touch.

_Four bottles of laudanum over the past eleven circles . . ._

He knew. Knew before the shopkeeper had mentioned it. Knew it all too fucking well.

Shouldn't she be improving by now? He was by no means a medical expert, but as a barber, there had every so often been a customer too cheap to pay for a physician who'd shown up on his doorstep. And, kind, willing soul that Benjamin Barker was, he always took them in. So he'd had to familiarize himself with basic medical treatments. But nothing ever as serious as this.

Her shifts in temperament and pain level followed a strict cycle, he'd learned quickly; thinking about her mood in factual terms rather than emotional ones was the only way he could function. The pain was the worst when she had no laudanum in her body, and when the pain was the worst, so too were the delusions. She would thrash and twist and moan, usually convinced she was trapped in fire. Sometimes she was convinced he was trapped in fire too. Upon he spooning another dose of the drug between her lips, she would gradually calm down, soon settling into a mellow state where the world could have been collapsing around her head and all she would have done was peer around with mild interest. But eventually the apathy would fade and the delusions would return, and then the whole vicious cycle would be repeated all over again.

Some of the burns, at least, seemed to be getting better. The fainter ones were nearly gone, several blisters scabbing over. The deeper ones showed no change. He supposed that was better than their worsening, but it did little to reassure him.

But if this was all a hallucination anyway, then what did it matter? Could he perhaps will it to be something different? Or perhaps she could will it to be different?

"_Imagination, reality. Does it really make a difference, Ben? We're together again."_

He closed his eyes. No. He had sworn to himself he would think on Lucy no longer. She would be much happier living out the rest of her eternity without him. She didn't love the man he was now – and he didn't know anymore how to be the man she loved. It was over. He'd settled the matter.

_But . . ._

But every circle since he'd found out that she was simply an afterlife away, his mind had strayed towards her. Repeatedly. Endlessly. She was his darling – his wife – his life . . . surely if he went back to her . . . surely with time she could grow to love this new man –

_Is that what you want?_

Yes. God, yes. Of course it was what he wanted.

_But . . ._

"She's gone, my love."

Sweeney jolted and his eyes shot to Eleanor. She looked back at him indolently from where she lay sprawled on the cot, perspiring and tangled in sheets, but perfectly relaxed. He glanced at the clock. Four chords had gone by since he'd come back from the shop to buy laudanum. He kept losing track of time's passage in her room, just as he used to when he lived, gazing out his shop window, dissipating into nothing but thoughts and recollections . . .

The drug had coursed through her system now. This, too, he had become accustomed to. She would now spend the next few chords in a peaceful state where nothing could bother her. In some ways, this was worse than when she slipped into the hallucinations. At least then she could still express emotion. At least then she still seemed alive.

_("so let's keep living it")_

"Mr. T?" she murmured. "Did you hear what I said? She's gone."

He gave her a blank stare.

"I'm talking about Lucy, love. You were mumbling aloud to yourself about her. Something about finding her again. I know you still go looking for her every circle, but you must know it isn't possible to find her."

He shook his head. Broke his gaze away from hers. "But it is, Eleanor."

"Love, you know as well as I do – even better, probably – that she's in some other afterlife – "

"I know. But I found her."

And suddenly he found himself babbling like he never had before – babble that was as long-winded and jumbled and frantic as the baker in her moments of distress – telling her everything: from the pull around his middle that led him to her, to the hollowed tree that had transported him to a land of clouds, to finding Lucy, to being given a chance to have everything he ever wanted, to letting it all go . . .

He didn't know why he was talking so – what was compelling his mouth to work like this – what was driving him to confide all of this to his devil. But he could not stop until he had finished.

Eleanor normally was just as animated a listener as she was a talker – eyes widening, eyebrows lifting, mouth gasping, head shaking, grinning, laughing, interrupting – yet as he spoke, her nonchalance did not so much as flicker. On occasion a vestige of an emotion would flash across her face, as though in a former life she had once known what it meant to feel, but it would be gone nearly as soon as it came.

When he finished, she stared at him for a solid three points before opening her mouth. "Love, I don't know how to tell you this, but that was all an illusion."

The anger surged through his veins – from reflex rather than emotion. "Mrs. Lovett, like it or not, Lucy is real – "

"Let me finish," she said. He clenched his hands, nails digging into flesh, but sealed his jaws. "Know those white clouds you were wondering about? Those're called the mists. When you wander into them, they pull you into fantasies that seem as real as any reality – fantasies of what you want most." She tilted her head. "Though since you seem to've left yours behind all on your own – something I certainly never could've managed – I guess it wasn't really what you wanted."

His head was shaking back and forth, a slow metronome to her dawdling speech, a silent protest.

"You think I'm lying to you again," she intoned without expression. "I don't blame you. I probably would too."

"I didn't wander into the white clouds," he muttered. "The tree took me there."

Only in the afterlife could he make that declaration without being laughed at.

Eleanor pursed her lips. "Huh. So you think the tree took you to heaven or something?"

"Or something," he echoed, fingers twitching.

She considered this. "Hmm. Then I don't know, love. I guess she is real. Well, as real as you and me, at least." Her bandaged hand reached out and gently batted one of his fists in a clumsy caress. "But you've got to let her have her peace now, Sweeney. That's all she ever wanted."

He stared at her, struck. Of course. Lucy was in a different afterlife than he because her purpose was different. In attempting to kill herself nearly two decades ago, she had sought peace, tranquility, the ability to watch safe behind a window without being the victim of further cruel actions . . . and she had finally be blessed with her desire for a solitude of serenity.

It was once what he had desired too . . . but no longer. He did not yet fully understand why he was on Is – what characteristic or intent had landed him here – but it was a purpose Sweeney Todd did not share with Benjamin Barker's wife.

"Yet you left Lucy behind," said Eleanor. Her eyes traced over the crevices and lines of his face as though she wished to imprint a map of his features into her mind. "You left her – you chose to come find – "

He cut her off: "How do you know about those mists that create realistic fantasies, anyway?"

If she hadn't been addled by opium, she never would have latched onto his change in subject. As it was, she jumped conversation topics as easily as sifting sand between her fingers. "Got caught in 'em once. When I was drifting back and forth between the nethers and Earth."

He wasn't sure he wanted the answer, but couldn't help asking, "And where – where did the mists take you? What did you see?"

She laughed under her breath, her eyes unfocused and yet focused – _too focused_ – on his. "Fool. Don't you already know what I saw? Don't you get it yet?" She paused. "I saw you."

Sweeney reached for the inner pocket of his robes where he kept one of his fettling knives, found it to be empty, and settled instead for fiddling with her bed sheets.

Sighing, Eleanor stretched her arms above her head and then burrowed them beneath her blankets. "You and me, by the sea, just like I always wanted." Her lips frowned. "Although I don't think I want that anymore. Maybe them mists show what we think we most want, rather than what we really want. Or maybe that's the same thing. Raises all sorts of questions about destiny and free will and what-have-you."

He continued to murder the fabric of her sheets between his fingers.

"Anyway," she went on breezily, "that pull 'round your waist that you felt? Been meaning to tell you 'bout that . . . 'cause I've felt it too, when I've gone looking for you. And when you went looking for me, I had all these . . . these weights in my stomach, like a ton of rocks. So I went and talked to Barsid 'bout it . . ."

She told him about a concept called sempers: a connection shared between two souls that manifested in unusual forms, such as these invisible tugging ropes. He thought it sounded like a good deal of nonsense, and made no attempts to disguise his skeptical countenance. He did, however, welcome the change in subject.

"I find it all hard a bit hard to believe too," Eleanor went on. "But – well, 's'not like stranger things haven't happened here."

He managed to unhinge his jaws for the first time in what must have been at least a solid chord. "You've known all this for some time. Why are you telling me now?"

She frowned at the wall. "Don't really know why I didn't tell you sooner. Guess I figured you'd take it badly – that you'd get mad for me claiming you cared 'bout me enough to share one of these semper things. I didn't want to face having my dreams made reality and then crumbling to ashes again."

He had to stop asking her questions. The opium made her too honest. She was telling him things she never would have normally. Things he did not want to hear.

Her eyes fixed on his, commanding a surprising amount of attention for a mind so muddled by opiates. "But I'm tired of lying."

xxx

"Eat it."

"'M not hungry," she grumbled into her pillow.

He knew no longer how long it had been since she received her burns. He knew no longer how many bottles of laudanum she'd drunk.

He knew only that she daily ate less than a sparrow. He knew only that her burns were healing, but slowly, far too slowly for recovery. He knew, whatever the odds, that he had to somehow keep her alive in her death. He knew only what mattered.

"You need to eat, Eleanor."

"Why? 'S'not like I can starve to death."

Hooking the blankets into his fists, he yanked the material out of her grip and down her body, then put one hand on her back and the other beneath her neck to guide her into an upright position. He placed her with her back leaning against the wall. She peered at him with the wide, lackluster eyes of a china doll.

"Eleanor," he said with forced calm, "you've hardly eaten at all for the past several weeks, and all you've choked down over the last three circles is a hunk of bread. You need to eat something."

Her lips puckered in the finishing touch for the doll. "Why's it matter so much to you?"

_Tell her._

"Eleanor," he warned instead.

"No, really," she persisted, heedless to the tension in his muscles and the silent threat in his eyes, mired as she was in delirium. "Why's it matter to you? You took such relish out of killing me – watching me scream and suffer . . . you'd think it'd be just as enjoyable seeing me in horrid pain the second time 'round. Maybe even better. Certainly seemed that way when you got Turpin again."

His vision was fogging with red. He wanted to hurt something. He wanted to create a wound. To watch it bleed. But he did not want to hurt her and this fact enraged him further.

_Just tell her. Admit that you're weak, admit that you –_

– _no –_

For he had realized something while trapped in this timeless circle. Perhaps realized was the wrong term; some part of him had already known, even before he'd spent so many chords trying to heal her, even before he had hauled her back from the netherlands, even before the foreign emotion of fear engulfed him as he watched the fires' greedy hands grasp her body. . . .

Perhaps the more appropriate wording would be that, while trapped in this timeless timeline with her, he had been forced to acknowledge something: something that reviled him, something that he loathed. Something that he could not control or battle against any longer.

Something that he was not yet able to say aloud.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, only reopening them when he had remastered himself.

"Just eat it," he told her. It was not a plea – Sweeney Todd did not plead for anything. But it was not a demand either. So he was surprised when – her apathetic eyes not gleaming with life for even an instant – she picked up the bread he'd set on her nightstand and took a small bite.

xxx

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she babbled, clutching at the collar of his robes and staring up at him with such intensity that gravity must have departed and he was now all that tethered her to the ground.

"It's okay," a bewildered Sweeney replied. Her hallucinations were often piercing and painful, but they usually consisted of her being trapped in fire, and he did not know how to handle this one. He attempted to cradle her head against his chest, but she refused the gesture, unwilling to break eye contact.

"No – no, it's not okay, it's damn well not okay – " her breathing hitched and her eyes moistened but she seemed determined to continue speaking " – Sweeney – I'm so sorry – "

"Shh, Eleanor – "

" – I never meant – only tried to – dammit, was only doing what I thought was right – "

His stomach plummeted. He knew now what she spoke of.

" – but that's no excuse – it's no excuse, and I know it's no excuse – " Perhaps gravity had returned, or perhaps she did not want him to see her tears: she now pressed against him and hid her face in his chest. "But I never meant to hurt you – thought hiding the truth would be better – I thought you'd be happier, not knowing that Lucy was alive in that sort of state – and that was my only goal, Sweeney, that's the only reason I lied, I just wanted to make you happy . . ."

Her voice, strained with tears, broke, and she continued on a hoarse cry, "Fuck, Nellie, don't try and kid yourself – that's not the only reason. It were a partly selfish thing too. I'm not proud of it, but there you have it – and it's only human, being selfish and selfless at the same time, isn't it? It's only human. . . . I didn't think any woman who wasn't willing to wait for you – anyone who gave up on you – deserved to have you . . . but me – me – I'd always been there, always been waiting . . ."

His skin was damp from her tears.

"But it was for you, my love," she whispered into his shoulder. "It was always for you – all of it . . . always . . ."

The stream of her words trickled away. It took him a moment to realize she had fallen asleep. He attempted to extract her limbs from his body and lay her down on the bed, but this soon proved an impossible task: she'd wound herself around him too tightly, her hands gripping the front of his robes, her legs curled around his waist. Resigning himself to the fact that he would not be able to remove her from him without waking her, Sweeney scooted along the bed until he was able to lean against the wall and closed his eyes.

xxx

"I wasn't just raving earlier."

Stirring from that strange place between consciousness and sleep, Sweeney looked down to find Eleanor still wrapped about him, eyes staring up at him with no trace of delirium.

She swallowed. "Really – it wasn't just me being trapped in my hallucinations and just going on and on . . . well, I mean, I _was_ going on and on, and I _was_ hallucinating . . . but I meant what I said. I really am sorry."

"I know," said Sweeney.

_Tell her._

"It was wrong," she mumbled. She sounded ashamed, but her gaze on his did not waver. "It was wrong, what I did, and I know that. If I'd known that it would hurt you more to not know that Lucy lived, I never would've lied . . ."

_Tell her. Tell her._

"I know it doesn't make a difference now, three or four Earth years later. I know it can't change anything. I just wanted you to know that. And I swear that if I could do it all over again and do it differently this time, I would – in a heartbeat."

_Tell her, damn you._

"I – I'm sorry too."

"For what?" she asked.

Why must he spell it out? Wasn't an apology enough? She should already know what it meant – all the many things it encompassed – all the things he couldn't say.

He studied her bed sheets with narrowed eyes. "You don't deserve to be here."

Silence. He cut his gaze to her. Her lips were parted but she did not seem about to say anything. Those had not the words his damned subconscious kept nagging him to say, but perhaps they were the most fitting words to say at present.

Besides . . . he meant them.

"Thank you," she finally murmured.

He winced. Only Eleanor Lovett would find a declaration from her murderer that he was sorry about killing her a reason to give thanks.

"And, well, let's be frank, love," she continued, her formerly soft tone becoming brassy. "You should be sorry."

He glared. Was it not enough that he had apologized? Did she now have to rub salt into the wounds even further?

"Well, it's true," said Eleanor indignantly, not put off in the slightest by his glower. "Good bloody grief, you've been owing me God knows how many apologies for God knows how long – might as well make sure you're good and sorry while I've got you in this mood. But I s'pose now we're even."

He didn't see how it could ever be called even. He'd shoved the woman into an oven, for Christ's sake. But he supposed he should not complain.

"What's dead is dead," he muttered.

She smiled and began tracing his collar bone with an absent finger. "Mmm. Yes, that's right." Sobering, her finger stilled and her smiled faded, and she looked up at him with wide, serious eyes. "But really, Sweeney – thank you for . . . saying that. About me not deserving to be here."

He nodded once, focusing his gaze on her bed sheets.

"To be honest though . . ." She resumed the tracing of his collar bone. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Not if this is where you are."

Sweeney was incredulous. Did she not understand the meaning of the word _dead_?

"You're mad," he informed her.

She grinned and sighed and shook her head all at once. "No. Just in love." Her mouth creased into a frown. "Or maybe that's the same thing."

Frowning, itching for a change in subject, he peered above her head at her clock. Quarter to magenta. He didn't know what circle he'd last changed her bandages, but the clock had read purple last time he'd done so, so it had been well over twenty-four chords ago. Changing her dressing was far easier when she was asleep, but he could not let several circles expire without her wrappings being refreshed.

He extracted her limbs from his body and laid her on the bed. Bucket in hand, he stepped through the wall to the room with the Is well, retrieved water, and returned to her room.

Seating himself on the edge of her cot, he leaned over and began to unwrap the cloths serving as bandages, beginning with the ones at her head and working downward –

He did not make it to downward before his limbs became paralyzed.

For the first time in this maddening timeless timeline, her burns were healing.

By no definition could they be labeled healed. Her skin was still far from normal. But where the flesh of her face had once been enshrined by withered, charcoaled patches now lay patches of a different sort: patches that were wrinkled and reddened and glossy, like the skin of a newborn babe.

"What is it?" Eleanor asked him, anxiety tingeing her voice as her eyes swept over his ashen face. "What's wrong?"

In answer, he took her left hand between both his palms, unwrapped its bandages, and showed her: where once there had only been the suggestion of skin, so melted to the bone sinews could hardly be seen, her entire hand was now bright pink and fresh.

Her lips quivered at the sight. She lifted her eyes to his and her mouth pulled into the smallest of smiles. He looked back at her and gingerly pressed his lips to the new flesh upon her knuckles.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are love, my dear readers. And, seeing as this fic is slowly drawing to a close (believe you me, I'm just as excited and confused and upset by the inevitable end as well!), the love needs to be spread now more than ever while it still can!

Anonymous review replies:

_Emma:_ Ah, I understand what you're saying now. Seeing as I've finished writing DIFTA and just have my edits to do now, I probably don't time space to incorporate that into this fic, but that's a fantastic idea (and you're totally welcome to write your own fic using such an idea =]). Thanks for reviewing, love.

_Lady Musket_: Almost choked? Dear me, on what, darling? I certainly never intended for my fic to need a choking hazard sign! xD

Well, as you have now learned from this chapter, Lucy was indeed real. I mean, as real as Sweeney and Nellie, at any , thanks for leaving a review, love, and please don't choke again!

_InsertNameHere_: Well, I'm glad that I managed to create such an emotional read for you! Thank you for R-&-R-ing, m'dear!

_Guest_: Let's hope you've regained your powers of speech by now, hmm? ;] Thanks for R-&-R-ing, love.

_Lauren_: well, aren't you a sweetheart! Thank you. Believe you me, if I *could* publish this, I would have tried. But, alas, copyrights stand in my way. I don't honestly mind too much, though; writing the story I care about, and then sharing it with people who also care about it, are really the most important aspects of writing fiction for me! And no, the story is certainly not complete yet! We've got, oh, I don't know how to do math . . . five or six chapters left, I believe. =) Anyway, thanks for R-&-R-ing.

P.S. Thank you for also reading It Will Not Last The Night and Burgundy Velvet. I can't reply to you on those fics, since they're already finished, but I did want to let you know that I really enjoyed getting some reviews for those ol' stories! =)


	30. Healing

_If the first grape you eat is bitter, then you will not bother eating grapes again. If the first grape you eat is a sweet one, then you will be willing to eat a lot of bitter grapes in search of another sweet one. – Anonymous_

xxx

Nellie felt disoriented when she woke to the sound of her clock chiming that it was maize: time to get up. It was the sort of disorientation she felt after she accidentally slept in on a Sunday morning – her body was not accustomed to receiving much sleep, so whenever it did, it would always take a good ten minutes just to center herself enough to roll out of bed.

But if it was maize, then she clearly hadn't slept in. This was the time she always woke up. Had she gone to bed early? She couldn't recall. In fact, she couldn't recall anything about the previous circle. Shit, had she had too much to drink again? No . . . no, if she'd consumed too much gin, she would feel ill rather than just confused.

_Enough of this nonsense, Nellie. Get out of bed, c'mon now._

With a sigh, she dragged herself off the cot and schlepped into her shop, frowning as she swiped a finger across the counter and received a load of dust. Why was everything in here so dirty? She had higher standards than this, and had not let her premises decline into such a sorry state since she'd been on Earth during the worst of the hard times, just before Sweeney'd shown up in her doorway. Brushing off the growing feeling that something was not right, she gathered up the materials needed to make porridge for she and her artist's breakfast.

As she reached for a mixing bowl, a strange mark on her left hand caught her eye. She brought her hand up to her face to examine it closer. It looked like a half-healed burn, the sort she used to get often in her early teenage years while learning how to cook. She had no memory of getting this burn. _You have no memory of anything recent._

What the hell was going on?

"Mr. Todd?" Nellie called as she entered his shop, porridge in one hand, bowls and utensils in another. "I know this's going to sound very strange, but we need to talk about what I've been doing lately, 'cause for some reason I haven't got a clue 'bout – "

She stopped talking when she realized he wasn't in the room. Yet another odd thing her mind could produce no explanation for. Things were growing stranger for no reason, and Nellie was growing frustrated by the lack of reason.

Thankfully, Sweeney chose that moment to enter through the opposite wall. His eyes went wide when he saw her.

"Eleanor."

He rushed to her, then halted abruptly and stood awkwardly perhaps a foot away, as though torn between moving closer and tearing away in the opposite direction. "Are – are you alright?"

She shot him a strange look as she began to march over to their table to set down the breakfast things. "Well, to be honest, love, I'm not sure anymore. I was hoping you could clear up some things."

She'd hardly taken half a step before he closed in on her and took the porridge and kitchen supplies from her hands, balancing it all on one arm with a prowess she had never known he possessed. He placed his free arm around her back. Such a caring gesture would have delighted her to the core any other circle – but this felt more as though he were offering physical support than acting the role of tender beau.

"You should sit down," he said, guiding her towards the table with slow, careful steps.

For a moment, Nellie considered pulling away and informing the fool that the problem was her mind, not her legs; she could walk perfectly fine, thank you very much. But any attention from Sweeney Todd was markedly better than no attention, so she decided to comply in silence as he led her across the room, set down the breakfast things, pulled out her chair for her, and ushered her into its seat.

_Perhaps I should let him think I'm ill more often, if it's going to bring out this lovely gentleman behavior._

"How are you feeling?" he asked as he dolled out porridge into her bowl, studying her with that intent, piercing gaze he usually reserved for his silver friends. She couldn't help but tingle with delight.

"Confused," she admitted. "Care to tell me what's been happening?"

He took the seat across from her after spooning some porridge into his own bowl, but did not begin eating. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't have a bloody idea what's going on!" Nellie cried, losing patience. "I can't remember anything that's been going on lately, and at first I blamed that on drinking too much gin the night before, but if that were true I'd feel bloody awful – which I don't. But I can't recall what's going on, my shop's a mess for no reason, there's this weird burn on the back of my hand which I've got no memory whatsoever of getting – and the way you're acting is odder still."

Sweeney's eyebrows were low over his eyes. "But you feel alright?"

"Define 'alright.'"

"You're not – in pain?"

She regarded him suspiciously. "No. Should I be?"

His eyes were on his hands, which were clasped together and sitting sideways on the table in a failed attempt at prayer. After stewing for at least a point, Nellie couldn't deal with his silence any longer. "Enough of this cryptic nonsense, Mr. Todd. Tell me what's going on."

He rapped his hands once on the tabletop, then looked up at her. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Her brow furrowed. "Well – let's see . . . I remember getting a recipe for that baklava stuff I've been aching to bake . . . and Eloise made a pot in your class that she was real proud of when she showed me – "

"_I do hope you have a pleasant trip, wherever you are going."_

_Smoke claws up her nostrils and rips at her throat; hideously beautiful reds and oranges and yellows of a sunset whirl in front of her eyes. She thrashes and hits the man behind her, once, twice, and as soon as his grip drops from her arms she races across the grass towards an escape that she cannot reach –_

Her hand lifted up and touched her left cheek, then her fingers traced down the left side of her neck, her shoulder, her arm. She remembered now.

Her gaze shot to Sweeney. "Turpin – ?"

"He's gone," said Sweeney.

She nodded. "Yes . . . yes, I remember . . . and – and the fires."

The fires that Turpin shoved her into, the fires that had very nearly pulled her to the depths of hell.

It was his turn to nod.

"After that it's all still a little blurry," she confessed. "I've got these vague memories – well, even that word is a little generous. They're more like shadows. Maybe they're dreams. Just little flickering moments of me lying in bed completely demented, and you – "

She swallowed back the rest of her words, afraid that if she spoke them aloud he would confirm that these shadow memories were indeed just dreams. Or, worse, if they _were_ real memories and he denied them.

"Yes?" said Sweeney, oblivious – or perhaps perfectly attune to – her inner turmoil.

Her throat constricted as she swallowed tightly. "It's all very vague, like I said . . . there were a lot of nightmares about fire, though I don't remember any great details anymore – but I do remember you sometimes being in the fire – and the real you would help pull me out of them – the nightmares, I mean. . . . I remember you giving me a bunch of laudanum too."

Which would, she realized, account for the pain in her abdomen and the sweat beginning to pool under her arms and between her breasts – from what she recalled, she'd been inhaling the stuff by the bottle.

"I remember how you kept covering me with blankets even though I kept kicking them off, and how you always wanted me to eat even though I was never hungry. And you sat by me – every time I woke up, you were always by my side. And – "

She stopped. Her next shadow was too strange, too indistinct – _too perfect_ – to say out loud. But Sweeney's gaze on her had not wavered once, and she had never possessed much control over herself when his attention was focused upon her . . . when he surrendered to her.

"And we apologized," she murmured.

He hadn't touched his porridge, she observed. Neither had she.

Their eyes were still clasped; his expression had not flinched.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Now he averted his gaze. "Don't," he said.

"No, really, Sweeney, that you feel – "

"Don't," he repeated in a hiss through his teeth, and when those dark eyes again latched onto hers, they contained silent threats and regrets.

"You should eat your porridge before it gets any colder," Nellie found herself saying. "'S'not going to be any good when it's cold. The tea's probably getting cool by now too. And it's very nearly time for you to open shop – me too, in fact – so we'd best hurry up."

She could have kicked herself. Why was it that words spilled most freely from her mouth when she had absolutely no idea what to say?

"Actually," she said, bolting to her feet so quickly she nearly knocked her chair over, "I should probably be on my way now – if I've been out of sorts for as long as it seems like, then I'll have a lot of catching up to do today in the shop. And I'll also need to go 'round to Anatoly and Eloise and make sure they haven't been hired elsewhere."

"You haven't touched your food, Eleanor."

"Oh, love, don't you fuss over me, I'll be fine – "

His strict voice did not bend: "You need to eat."

Despite herself, she had to fight a smile. "Didn't it used to always be me demanding that you eat something for a change? When did our roles become reversed, love?"

"When they needed to be," said Sweeney without a shred of the amusement in his tone. "Sit down."

To humor him, she swallowed three bites of porridge and a cup of tea, then cleared up the breakfast things and bustled off. After dumping the dishes off at her shop, she returned to the wall. Her first destination was Anatoly's, whose jaw came perilously close to smacking the floor when he saw her. He further abandoned all of his usual nobleman mannerisms when he engulfed her in a hug.

"I've been worried about you, Mrs. Lovett."

"For the last time, dear," she sighed, "just call me Nellie. Look, I just came by to say that I know I've been a horrible employer lately – what with appearing and then disappearing time and time again – but it won't be happening again. So I was wondering if you'd like to have your job back or if – "

"Are you alright?" he questioned, ignoring her rambling, as he pulled away from her.

"Yes, fine," she dismissed, "but listen, Toly, if you haven't got work elsewhere yet, I'd really – "

"Are you alright?" Anatoly asked again, his hands still at her shoulders, his eyes still intent and boring into hers.

_No more lies, Nellie._

"No, I haven't been alright." She took a deep breath. "But I think I'm going to be."

Thankfully, Anatoly had not been hired at another location. He had not been looking at all, in fact.

In some ways, Nellie Lovett was blessed.

Next she went to see Eloise. The girl's brow furrowed as she pulled open her door and saw her guest. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again, Mrs. Lovett."

Nellie bit the inside of her lip. "I'm so sorry, darling. I promise it won't happen again."

Eloise did not move from her position inside the doorframe, did not move to embrace Nellie as Anatoly had done, or even to welcome her inside. Her jaw was tight, her eyes crinkled at the corners, wounded. She might have been a child, but she had been betrayed too many times to continue believing in people without ever a second thought as most children did: betrayed by the mother who had never arrived upon Is, by the artist who had been a cold-blooded murderer, by the baker who had twice abandoned those she considered her adoptive children . . .

"I know my promises don't hold much weight anymore, love," said Nellie. "But they're all I've got to offer 'til I can put my words into action."

She reached out a hand to stroke Eloise's hair, then hesitated and curled her fingers in at the last moment, pretending that she had only reached out to brush dust from her own robes. But Eloise caught her fingers and forced Nellie's eyes to hers.

"Can I trust you?" she asked Nellie.

Nellie winced. "I'm not going to lie to you, love. I think you can trust me. I'm not entirely sure; I'm only just starting to trust myself." Her hand tightened around Eloise's. "But trust me when I say that I've come back for good."

xxx

"How are you doing?"

It was a question that he once wouldn't have asked her even if she was being crushed alive by a thousand rocks. Well, on second thought, he might have asked how she was fairing under those circumstances. But only with extreme difficulty. Suffice to say it wasn't a question contained in the litany of ten-words-or-less phrases for what Sweeney Todd believed passed as conversation.

Yet he asked it today without a shred of discomfort.

"Pretty well," Nellie replied, setting down his dinner before him. "Well, my stomach hurts and I'm sweating like a pig, but that's to be expected what with all that damn opium you poured into my body. Poor Mrs. Mooney did much worse, vomiting and shaking all over the place. Other than the stomach ache and sweat though, I feel fit as a fiddle. That's really quite a strange expression, isn't it? Fit as a fiddle – I mean, why on Earth is a fiddle of all things – "

"Would you stop fidgeting and just sit?" Sweeney grumbled.

"Oh – sorry." She took a seat and gave him an anxious smile, trying to gauge if he was still upset by their exchange this morning. He stared back at her unflinchingly. When she began to become uncomfortable, she shrugged and spread her arms.

"The view isn't going to change, love," she said with a vague gesture towards herself. "Looking for something in particular?"

"Just looking," he muttered, picking at a spot of dried clay on his fettling knife. "You're recovering so fast – maybe too fast."

"How's that a bad thing?" Nellie asked, her eyebrows pulling together.

"It's not."

"But it's not a bad thing to be healing, so I don't see what – "

He set down his blade; it struck the table with a note of finality. "Eleanor, yesterday you were thrashing around on your cot, convinced that you were trapped inside of hellfire. You had burns that ran nearly to the bone covering the entire left side of your body. Today you're acting perfectly normal and don't possess a single wound – do you?"

"Erm . . ." Nellie had been stunned into silence by his words; she'd had no idea she'd been in such bad shape. She cleared her throat and attempted to kick her brain back into action. "I, uhh, hadn't checked, to be honest about it – didn't really know, actually – I mean, I remembered being burned, but not specific spots or the like . . . I've got this mostly-healed thing on the back of my left hand, bit of raw pink flesh that's growing some new skin, but apart from that I'm not really sure – "

Sweeney stood up from the table, strode to her in two quick steps, and helped her to her feet. Before she could ask what he was doing, he took hold of her robes and made to pull them over her head.

"Mr. Todd!" Nellie barked, yanking the material back down and out of his grip. "This is hardly the time or the place – why, we haven't had dinner yet – and for God's sake, you fool, the door's not even locked – "

His expression, formerly stony, melted into one of faint amusement. "You've never been terribly concerned with propriety, pet."

"That's not the point and you know it."

He turned serious again. "I was going to see if your burns are truly gone."

_Why do you care?_ she wanted so badly to _ you care?_

This time she allowed him to take off her robes and undergarments (after locking the door, of course). His eyes ravaged her exposed form – a deed that, under any other circumstances, would have flushed her with ecstasy. As it was, his examination contained not a hint of lust. He would have made a fine doctor, she decided, were it not for his preference to kill rather than save.

"No marks," he muttered in wonder, brushing the pad of his thumb along the left side of her collarbone, tracing the bone of her shoulder and arm. She was unable to stop herself from leaning into his touch. He got on his knees to scrutinize her torso and legs. "No burns. Just a few spots of pink flesh where new skin is growing in, but even that's minimal – "

"How?" Nellie burst out. Even the distraction of Sweeney's hand humming across her skin couldn't stop her mind from convulsing and spitting up wild thoughts. "How're there no marks? How's it possible?"

"Medicine. Bandages. The passage of time. Same as with any other illness or injury."

"But you're making it sound like I was on the point of a second death – "

"It certainly looked that way," he muttered, fingertips tightening for a moment upon her thigh.

" – so why didn't I go the way of Turpin and just – get extinguished?"

"Turpin didn't escape the fires." His thumb caressed her knee in what she decided was a very deliberate maneuver as he checked the skin. "He didn't have the time or the will to heal himself as you did."

"So I survived my second almost-death 'cause of a – power of the individual thing or something?"

"Or something," Sweeney agreed, his tone casual and yet firm, convinced.

The man was normally so logical. What was it that made him believe this so firmly?

"It just doesn't make sense," she said. "Something about this just doesn't feel right and I don't like it at all."

Sweeney stood and handed Nellie her clothes. "You would rather burn for eternity?"

The question was so unexpected that she could only balk for a moment. Then fury's teeth sunk into her skin and spread their venom through her bloodstream.

"Wouldn't _you_ rather I burned for eternity?" she snapped back.

Suddenly he pulsed with anger too. Before she could process it, he had her backed against the wall. "Dammit, Eleanor – haven't I proven what I feel? What more do you want from me?"

His anger numbed her, his body shuddering with each of his inhales as he glared at her. His words fluttered around her like a tantalizing rainbow in the midst of fog, like a epitome of nearly hopeless hope:

_Haven't I proven what I feel?_

"What do you feel?" she hardly dared to whisper.

He didn't answer. After a breathless eternity, she decided not to press the matter, and instead responded to his second inquiry.

"I want the truth, love. I realize that's probably more than I deserve, but it's what I want. I just want to know what you're thinking – feeling . . ."

When he still made no sound, her hand reached out towards his face. He flinched the instant her fingers made contact with the skin and turned away from her, striding away as fast as his feet could carry him.

Nellie closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. She should have heeded the warning signs, quit while she was ahead. Now all recent progress would molder in the gutter and she would be forced to rebuild what little of a relationship they'd created.

Wresting her eyes open revealed Sweeney to be standing at the opposite end of the room with his back to her, still and straight as the statue he had so often mimicked back when they were alive and he stood before his window. Her heart clenched. It had been so long since his past and his pain had immobilized him.

They were back at the beginning. Or maybe they had never left.

_Nothing ever changes._

xxx

Guilt was not an emotion Sweeney was accustomed to feeling, but he did not think this alien thing in the pit of his stomach went by any other name.

It needed to go away.

_("what do you suggest we do about that?")_

But first priority was to reacquire his control. He stood still and inhaled and exhaled.

From behind him, her hand fluttered onto his shoulder and his muscles tensed.

"Let's eat, love," she murmured.

_For tomorrow we die._

She navigated him to his chair – she had donned her clothes again, he noted distantly – then took her own seat. Sticking a finger into her bowl, she frowned. "Bugger. Minestrone's gone cold. But reheating it at this point would mean postponing dinner by another half a chord, so I s'pose we should just get on with it. And it's not cold as ice, more just room temperature, which isn't so bad. Bread's still a bit warm, and gin certainly doesn't have any precise heat it needs to be at, so in terms of that, we're all set – "

"Does your former offer still stand?" Sweeney questioned.

She did not seem to take offense to the fact that he had not been listening to her aimless chatter, but her eyebrows did pull together in puzzlement. "Erm – what?"

He stirred the silver spoon in slow circles through the soup. "Several circles after you returned to Is the second time – "

"I'm losing track of the numbers, love. Could you specify?"

He raised an eyebrow. "After we slept together."

He had to admire how she didn't even blush. "Right." She fought off a smirk. "Continue."

"Several circles after that, you proposed we do something 'fun.' Does that still stand?"

She threw him a look of pure incredulity. "Since when do you want to do anything fun? You never want to enjoy things or break your routine or –_ oh_." She chewed on her lip, considering him. He twirled his spoon and admired the way it captured the light. "This is guilt manifested, isn't it? This is you feeling – "

"Eleanor."

"Don't you give _'Eleanor'_ me. I know I'm right. Well, sure, I'd love to go out and do something fun." A spark of challenge and scrutiny alighted in her gaze, daring him to speak the truth. "Can't say I understand the complete _why_ behind you wanting to suddenly – "

He interrupted, not wanting to hear whatever probing accusation she was next about to make. "We both could use a change."

"You hate change."

She was right. But what he hated even more was loss of control – this abandonment of restraint – how he never could grasp the emotions (and it pained him to use that word – _emotions_ – for Sweeney Todd was not human, Sweeney Todd should not feel a thing) pulling, kneading, warping his innards . . .

He could see the question burning in her eyes, the confusion. She didn't understand his motivation or eventual goal. She couldn't possibly know that, for the first time since the birth of Sweeney Todd, there was neither.

"Did you have anything in particular in mind?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Well. Fun." She rapped her fingers on the table. "I s'pose we could go out to a tavern, but that's not too different from what we usually do. I've wanted for quite some time to see a play, actually."

She'd never mentioned that to him, but he wasn't surprised by this desire; she never passed up the chance to pretend she was upper class. On the other hand, maybe it wasn't pretending anymore – she certainly had enough money nowadays to rival even Turpin's loot.

"Oh!" Her mouth broke into a grin. "D'you know, my friends Lorraine and Ann were telling me just the other circle – don't look at me like that, you know who Ann is, I've told you about her – Ann Radcliffe?"

His lip curled. "You're friends with that woman who writes those silly romance novels you love reading?"

"Yes," she said with a good deal of indignation, "I am. And Jane Austen, might I add." He barely resisted rolling his eyes. "Anyway, one of Ann's writer friends has written an opera, and it's just opened. An opera, can you imagine? Those are only the sort of things I've read about. Never been to one – have you?"

After he shook his head, she plowed ahead with her chatter, leaning back on the chairs hind legs as she rocked back and forth. The movement caused a stray curl to tumble from her knotted hair and into her eyes.

"Well, then, what d'you say?" she queried. "Shall we go?"

He watched the vagrant lock swish back and forth along her brow. He had the strange desire to brush it behind her ear.

"Yes," he muttered.

She clapped her hands together and her chair fell back on all four legs. "Excellent. Oooh, it'll be such fun. Shall we go tomorrow, then? I don't remember the exact timeslots, though I'm guessing it'll be evening hours. Oh, and we must dress up for the occasion – if it's not too far a walk, I mean – perhaps beforehand we should eat out for a change, just to really make it a special – "

She broke off mid-thought, chewing her lip before saying, "Thank you, love."

Sweeney jerked his head in acknowledgement.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** You guys. You are all awesome. You broke 400 reviews with the last chapter. Thank you. I really don't have words to express how grateful or humbled I am by the overwhelming response to this fic. I no longer know whether to be relieved that I'm nearly done with this fic, or heartbroken over the fact that ending this fic means leaving not only Sweeney and Nellie behind, but all of you fantastic readers, too. =s

But hey, regardless, it's been a great ride, and it isn't over yet. ^^ So let's make the last bit of the journey just as enjoyable as the first, yeah?

Anonymous review replies:

_Guest_: Thank YOU for reviewing, love. =)

_katkara_: This was certainly a big chapter for Sweeney. I'm glad that you found it a believable transition for him. It took him a while, but people can and do change, however reluctantly or slowly. Thanks for R-&-R-ing, love!

_Emma_: Well, you could always try your hand at writing, if you really have an idea you're passionate about! LOL. Yes, I know, I've kept you in suspense re: mutual acknowledgement of love for quite a long time . . . and continue to keep you in suspense . . . but hey, Sweeney and Nellie have made a lot of progress, no? xD As I've said before, this story IS in the romance category for a reason, however painfully slow that romance may be at some moments!

_Lauren_: Thank YOU for R-&-R-ing, m'dear! I hope you continue to enjoy the fic!

_Emma_: Breathe, darling, breathe! I swear I'm not trying to kill you with my story here! xD But hey . . . if you do happen to pass on to the next life . . . say hi to Sweeney and Nellie for me, hmm? They're currently a little miffed with me, though Is only knows why!


	31. You And Me

_Forever is composed of nows. – Emily Dickinson_

xxx

"We're going to be late."

"No, we're not," she grumbled, eyebrows drawn and lower lip trapped beneath teeth as she glowered at her reflection in the mirror. She made yet another jab at her unruly hair with what looked like a polished, sharp stick. He was not sure what effect this was supposed to have, but apparently it did not achieve the desired one, for she _hmph_ed and tried again with another swiping motion.

"Pet," said Sweeney irritably, "the show starts at magenta and it's five 'til."

"You convinced me not to wear my dress to this whole affair," she replied, making an odd twisting motion with the stick, "and I understand your reasoning behind that. Not being able to walk through walls while wearing clothes other than these silly robes is very frustrating. But how my hair is fixed has absolutely no impact on whether or not I can walk through walls, so you're not going to talk me out of doing this. It looks a right mess."

"It looks how it always does."

"Exactly."

Sweeney was perplexed. "Your hair has never bothered you before."

Her spine straightened and her eyes sparked. The fiery look soon gave way to one of hope, bursting from the seams of her expression. "Tonight is going to be different."

She raised the stick in the air again and plunged it into her curls, with the result of stabbing herself in the head. She winced and cursed, screwing her eyes shut, placing her free hand over her scalp.

Sweeney moved to stand behind her. "Eleanor. Stop." He pried the stick from her fingers, eyeing it as he did so. Not only was it smooth and pointed, but it diminished in size from one end to the other. "What is this?"

"Piss," she grumbled, not opening her eyes.

"Eleanor."

She opened her eyes and removed her hand from her injured head. "'S'called a chopstick. Normally they're used to eat with, but apparently lots of people in Asia put them in their hair too. I asked a few of my customers about it, thought it looked lovely on them. But I can't for the life of me figure out how to imitate what they did . . ."

Her voice trailed away as his hands burrowed in her curls, arranging and twisting and binding the strands to his satisfaction with the clips on her bureau. In less than a point, her hair was pulled into a cochlear knot, one lone curl dangling along the left side of her face.

Eleanor gazed at herself, then frowned. "You didn't use the chopsticks."

He grazed with his fingertips the spot on her scalp where she had bayoneted herself with aforementioned chopstick, brushing away flecks of dried blood. She hadn't made a deep puncture, but neither was the mark anything to scoff over. "I see no point in killing yourself over your hair."

"Oh, ha ha, kill myself – very clever."

"Shall we go?" he asked peevishly.

"Yes, very well," she sighed, linking their arms together and stomping towards the wall – but not before tossing another glance into the mirror and lightly touching her hair-do.

He didn't understand the opera whatsoever. It wasn't that he could not understand the language – his French was not extensive, but it was enough to get by – it was that he could not understand the words. Each consonant was drawn out so ridiculously, each vowel warped so extensively, that by the time a whole word actually escaped from the singer's lips, one would have already forgotten the previous syllable.

Eleanor, however, seemed to be enjoying herself. Her eyes were riveted to the first act, gulping down the story. As the opera droned on, however, her attention waned, gaze remaining on the actors but body fidgeting in her seat, causing her chair to continually creak and murmur in her fruitless quest to become comfortable.

"Are you alright?" he finally had to ask during the intermission between acts three and four.

"Yes. No. I don't know." She ran her fingers through her hair, musing the tresses he had so carefully placed. "There's just too much happening and yet nothing's happening." Though her words could have perfectly described the opera, he knew that wasn't what she was referring to.

"I just feel so – lost . . ." Her fingers drifted from her hair to the back of her left hand, brushing against the only spot of skin that gave any hint to the fact that, just two circles ago, her body had been riddled with burns. "And I thought doing something – doing anything would help, but I don't – I can't . . ."

He put a hand on her shoulder and steered her towards a relatively empty corner of the room. "Perhaps we should leave."

She frowned. "It isn't very polite to get up right in the middle of a show and just go . . ."

"Yes, you and I have always been paragons of politeness."

That managed to tilt one corner of her mouth in the suggestion of a smile. Then her eyes brightened with a new thought. "How about we pop down to the waters for a bit?"

His body went rigid. He knew instantly that by the waters, she meant the waters in the nethers leading to the land of the living. He'd thought they had a silent understanding that neither of them would ever return to Earth again. That sacrificing oneself to the past out of penitence, regret, or love was not worth the effects – on either of them.

"Not to see anyone living," she reassured him. "And not to stay permanently. I just need to escape for a little while."

He didn't want to go. But if he refused to go with her, she would likely go alone. If he tagged along, he could better prevent her from being forever ensnared by her guilt.

"Alright," he said, wary.

Looping her arm through his, Eleanor strolled towards the door. "Don't want anyone to see us melting off to the nethers," she explained as they exited the room. "Good thing you told me not to wear my dress, otherwise we'd never be able to do this." She closed her eyes and the floor lulled her downward; limbs entwined, he was taken along.

Save for an occasional remark about the beautiful sky or a lovely flower, she was silent during their stroll through the nethers. Her quiet was accentuated by the natural quiet of the nethers, creating a silence that permeated every nook and pressed upon his eardrums like thunder. He wished she would say something – anything – to break the oppressive nothingness. He too needed an escape. But when she didn't say anything, he continued to shuffle along beside her, mute.

At last, they reached the waters. Eleanor approached until she stood at the very edge, where land and ocean met, and swirled the liquid with her toes. Then she looked up at him with raised eyebrows, as though he were the one delaying their travel. "Ready?"

He nodded, wondering where her intended destination was.

Together, the demon barber and baker dived into the waters. Joined only by clasped hands now, they swam into the gray depths, further and further down. As always, just when it felt as though his lungs were about to shatter from want of air, the waters were gone. He took a deep inhale, and then another. Focused on enjoying the abundance of oxygen, it took him a moment to realize where she had taken him.

"Well, c'mon, love," she said to his inert form, untangling their fingers to again hook their arms together, tugging at him.

They were by the sea.

He looked hard at her. She only smiled, pulling again at his arm.

"I don't think . . ." he began, but didn't know how to continue.

"Love, please. Just once . . ."

She, too, did not seem to know how to continue. He tried to read the jumbled fragments in her eyes: _Just once let me walk by the sea with you. Just once let me live my dream._

They began to maunder along the sand. It must have been off-season; the place was completely deserted. The sky was a dusky hue of purple, smudged by a sunset and flecks of stars. Waves crashed against the shore to their own irregular cadence. Were he alive, he would smell salt and seaweed, and the sand would crunch and shift beneath his feet, and the ocean breeze would stir his hair. But he was dead, so all he was allotted was a glimpse of what he once had, no more.

And again the urge to confess rolled within him, surged more powerful than the ocean through his bloodstream:

_Tell her. Now._

"Haven't been here since I was a little girl," she murmured. Dizzied by too many thoughts and feelings, he directed his attention towards the sound of her voice. "But nothing's changed all that much." She kicked off one of her shoes and wiggled her toes as they walked along, pretending to make indentations in the sand with her movement. He had to avert his gaze.

"'S'just too bad I can't make a sandcastle." She sighed and tipped her face up to the sky. "But it's still beautiful, isn't it? So much more beautiful than London or Is. None of that pointless clutter . . . everything's so wide – the sand and the sky and sea . . . so open with potential . . ."

He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"I know," she sighed, "you hate the sea. I get it. You can't like anything that I do on principle because that would be admitting that you might actually be human – and that you and me might actually be more alike than you'd care to admit."

Sweeney cast his eyes sideways at her. "Is that what you think?"

"Think? More like know."

"You're wrong," he said quietly.

Eleanor frowned at her swinging feet. "You don't have to say that just to try and make me feel better. You hated the idea of living here. What, was I not s'posed to notice your disinterest – sometimes disdain – each time I brought it up?"

He spoke with careful deliberation: "I don't hate the sea because you love it."

She tilted her chin up and towards him. Her one stray curl grazed his shoulder with the movement. "Do keep talking, love."

"Nothing more to say," he grunted.

"Sweeney," she said, her voice low and threatening and emphasizing the vowels, mimicking the warning tone he often used on her when he said her name.

An unexpected fury lashed through his body. He stopped walking and rounded on her; their matched gait broken, she stumbled a moment before catching herself and turning to him, eyes wide but jaw set.

"I hate the sea because it destroyed my life."

"That was Turpin who did that, dear – " she began in soothing tones, an air of confusion to her words.

"The sea is what bore me to Australia," he continued, the words grating against his throat like silverware scraping empty plates. "The sea is what barricaded all sides of the land and prevented my escape; it's what that tossed me about while I clung to a makeshift flotsam and waited for either death or rescue. It's a monster as hateful and cruel as humanity, and I don't understand why you – "

A wave of embarrassment dulled the fire, and he made to turn away from her, but she gripped his arm. "Don't understand why I don't what?"

"Why you don't recognize its cruelty," he muttered, staring at the setting sun as it cast a hazy shimmer along the crashing waves. "How you can love something so heartless."

Then again, she loved him, too.

"Because . . ." She crushed his arm between her fingers, kneading and clinging to the flesh as though buried within there were the words she sought. She stilled her hand and swallowed. "Because it's not heartless at all, love. . . . Sometimes you have to look below the surface to truly know the nature of a thing."

"I had no desire to go below the surface of the ocean and drown," he retorted.

Her hand withdrew from his arm. He ripped his eyes from the sea to her face, but she did not meet his gaze. Her arms were held stiff at her sides, her face turned towards the water, expressionless. His deliberately literate, cruel reply had hurt her.

"That's not what I meant," she told the ocean softly. "Though I guess I was a fool to expect anything else from you."

She resumed ambling along the shore, either oblivious to or not caring that he was no longer beside her. When he caught up to her, she made no comment, but did slip her arm through his. So they walked, arm in arm like a courting couple on a stroll, but the air still tasted bitter and they sifted through it as though it were hardened porridge.

_I'm sorry,_ he burned to say. He was past trying to reason out to himself these emotions that he did not understand, so did not question the urge, merely observed it. _I'm sorry I said that and that what I said hurt you and that I always hurt you and –_

But the words choked off in his throat before they could reach his lips.

"Look," he muttered some minutes later.

"Hmm?"

He pointed out to the ocean. Her eyes followed his finger, squinting, then she gasped.

"Oh!" she said. They stopped walking. "That's a seal, isn't it? Haven't seen one of those since I was a little girl. Oh, they're wonderful, aren't they? So lovely and – oh, look, there's two of them! How adorable. D'you think they're a couple?"

"Seals live in harems," he informed her.

"They do not!"

"They do."

"I don't believe you. How on Earth d'you come to know that?"

"Perhaps I am better read than you."

"Perhaps you're a conceited prick who just knows useless bits of information like roots of names and how seals live – information that'll never be of any practical use . . ."

Slipping into their usual banter waned the tension; they walked along in ease now, she resting her head against his shoulder. After a time, she tired of the raillery, and suggested they take a dip in the water.

"You do realize that's impossible," said Sweeney after a pause.

"Nothing's impossible, love. This – " she tapped his forehead " – is the only thing that makes things impossible." With that, she took off at a run to the water. Frowning, he followed her at a more relaxed pace, though did not enter the ocean.

"You do realize," he began again, watching as she kicked off both shoes and placed them on the sand, wiggling her bare toes in the surf and making less impact upon the water than a breath of air, "that your statement has no logic behind it. No matter how much I believe my skin is purple, that will not make it so."

"Looked in a mirror lately, love?" she chirped, throwing him a grin that he did not return. She sobered. "I just want to enjoy the water one more time, Mr. T. Surely that's not a crime."

But she couldn't enjoy it. She couldn't feel it. All this would accomplish would be to tantalize herself with something she could no longer do. Something he had stolen from her.

She stepped further into the ocean. For a moment, he wondered if he might witness a twisted parody of the second coming of Christ and see the Devil's wife walk on water. As it turned out, however, the only solid surface for a spirit was the ground: in all appearances, Eleanor now seemed to be up to her ankles in the water, except for that there were no ripples or indentations to indicate she stood there.

"You going to join me?" she asked.

"No." Even if he had thought favorably of the sea, he did not see the point in participating in what he could not feel.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself." She waded out into the water until she was nearly waist-deep. Then she stopped moving, and the world held its breath, suspending a moment in time, and he stared at her form, her back to him, the water shimmering around her, the pigments of the setting sun blurring the sky like spilled paint on a tattered canvas.

The world resumed breathing. Eleanor stretched luxuriously, then – for reasons he did not understand whatsoever – began to play: splashing and skipping in the water like a foolish child. Of course she could not actually move or touch the water, but this didn't seem to bother her in the slightest; her grin was the most genuine he had ever seen.

_("I've always had this dream . . .")_

And – for reasons he understood even less than the reasons behind her actions – his legs pulled him forward, surging through the water towards her. He grabbed her from behind around the waist – she shrieked, but not from fear – and lifted her into the air to spin her around. Laughter bubbled up her throat. He set her down after several spins but kept his hands upon her waist, and she turned around in his grasp to face him. There was no laughter in her face anymore.

He had never felt so powerless, not even when Turpin's officers had dragged him bodily away from the flower market, or when he had been flayed within a breath of his life after his first attempt to escape from Botany Bay, or when he had cradled Lucy's lifeless body in his arms . . .

But maybe being powerless was not always a terrible thing.

If he then leaned towards her, or if she reached up to him, he did not know, but when their lips touched, it did not matter. His fingers knotted in her hair, tipping her head back, and her fingers lighted upon his cheek –

Then he jerked back. Had she not grabbed him by the shoulders, he would have bolted away as fast as possible.

"What?" she said urgently. "What's wrong?"

He forced his eyes to hers. "I can't do this."

"What – kiss me? Well, in case you didn't know, dear, we've done that before. In fact, we've been bedfellows for some years now."

But that wasn't what he meant, and somehow she seemed to know this – though the particulars of his meaning alluded her. Her forced jesting faded. "I don't understand, love . . ."

Her hands would not be this warm on his skin if she were actually able to feel how cold the ocean was, if she were still alive; this inaccurate detail made the entire experience more surreal and more terrible.

_Death is for the_ dead_._

He again tried to twist away from her, but she would not remove her hands from his shoulders, and only gripped tighter when he made to flee.

"You deserve better," he muttered.

"But it's you I love."

He felt himself growing frustrated. Just once, couldn't she listen to him? "I can't do this to you."

Her face flushed; she was getting frustrated too. "What're you talking about?"

Even if her hands hadn't been clutching his shoulders, with the way her eyes were piercing him, he would not even have been able to move his feet. "I killed you, Eleanor."

"You think I haven't realized that by now?" she snapped. "It hasn't changed how I feel."

Did she not understand what the wordkill meant? How could she still love him? How could a relationship between them ever work? He could suddenly not bear being who he was, suddenly itched to shed his skin like a snake and emerge anew – and if he could not stand himself, how could he expect _her _to stand him?

Life _is for the alive._

"Then you're mad," he accused.

For some reason, that made her lips hook into a smile. "There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness."

"What?"

She gave him an indulgent smirk and shrug of her shoulders. "Just something Barsid said to me once. Thought it was a load of rubbish when I first heard it, but once I thought about it, I realized how much truth there is behind it."

He shook his head, anger giving way to despair. "Eleanor – I took your life."

Swallowing, she removed one of her hands from his shoulder, grasped his own hand, and placed it against her left breast.

Her heart beat in his hand.

"You also took this," she said.

_Perhaps neither life nor death determines if you are alive._

He moved first this time, cupping her face between his palms and brushing his lips against hers. The kiss depended, not a rough demand, but a tender question. He felt her quiver under his touch, but this did not stop her from pressing closer in answer, enfolding him in her arms as the two seals barked in the distance and the sea murmured beneath their feet.

He could have sworn that he smelled seaweed and salt.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Oh, my dear readers. I am so happy to finally share this chapter and to be finally nearing the end of this fic. But I am also so sad because I do not know I will do with my life once this fic is over. o.o;; And yeah, I am slightly exaggerating here, but only slightly. xD

I have decided to put this in writing, because if I do not, it will be easy for me to brush it to the side: my goal is to have this story entirely finished and posted by Christmas Day. _Why Christmas?_ you might ask. _This story has no relation to Christianity, right?_ Yes, you are absolutely right, but Christmas seems like a fitting day for multiple reasons. For one, it's a fantastic holiday that I adore, and I'd like to give you guys a wonderful gift as a thank-you for being such awesome readers. Two, Christmas Day itself, however exciting and colorful and cozy, can also get rather boring (but, then again, I am Jewish, so perhaps my perspective is skewed xD). And three, it was on Christmas Day six years ago that I went to the movie theater and saw Sweeney Todd for the first time. I knew, walking into the theater, that I would enjoy this film; after all, it was a musical with not only the drop-dead-gorgeous Johnny Depp, but also virtually half the cast of my beloved Harry Potter series. But I did not know just how much I would enjoy it. I did not know that I would fall in love with every song, movement, character arc, gesture, and nuance of the story. I did know how much my life would alter - my fandom activities, my musical theater interests, my new friendships, and my writing activitiess/abilities - because of this single film that I chose to see one boring Christmas Day. Yes, I am getting sentimental here. Sue me. xD

Anywho, I know given my current schedule of posting roughly once a month, it seems like rather a push to post four-five chapters in under two months. And it is. Which is why I need the support of my awesome readers more than ever in the coming weeks to help me make my self-imposed deadline! =)

Because reviews are love and I love you guys, and I hope you love me, too. Or, if not me, at least Toddvett. ^^

Anonymous reviews:

_Emma_: -offers an inhaler in form of new chapter- They're coming 'round, hon. Good things come to those who can wait, right? ;] Thanks for reviewing!

_Lady Musket_: Well, I am glad to hear it! Don't worry about not knowing what to say - I love speechless reviewers just as much as those who have lots of feedback! Really, I'm a feedback whore. ^^;; Thanks for reviewing!

_Emma_: Wait . . . I am getting confused . . . do I have two annonymous Emmas or one? xD As to a sequel, well, at the moment I honestly need a break from the ST fandom once this fic is done, but I'll certainly stash the thought in the idea drawer! Thanks for R-&-R-ing.

_Random Person_: Me? A famous person in disguise? -shifty eyes- LOL, no, don't I wish. But trust me, some day when I AM a world-renowned famous author, y'all will be the first to know about it. ;D Thanks very much, love!

_Emma_: [still don't know if you are the same Emma?] Here is an update!

Please don't kill me for making you wait. ^^;;

_BooksAreMyVideoGames_: Well, hello, new reader, and welcome to my novel! I'm delighted to hear that you're enjoying the fic so far. Yes, as you have gathered, I am not a fan of quick romances. I am a firm believer that delayed gratification makes the final anticipated event all the grander. I also just don't believe, at least in the case of two people with as many, erm, issues to work through as Nellie and Sweeney, that a speedier romance would be at all believable. But hey, they're making progress, yeah? ;] I'm glad to hear you enjoyed my rendering of Lucy, too; that was a challenging scene, as I personally have very little respect for that woman. But she is still ultimately human, and she does sincerely love Benjamin Barker, so I wanted to give her a fair portrayal. Anyway, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!


	32. Stay Forever

_Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other. – Rainer Maria Rilke_

xxx

It was almost too good to be true.

Maybe it was too good to be true. Maybe she was about to awaken and discover that none of it had ever happened.

_Please, God – let this be my reality._

_Oh, for pity's sake, Eleanor. You really still think _He's_ got anything to do with you?_

If this wasn't reality – if she was about to awaken and discover that she had never visited the sea and Sweeney still did not return her feelings and her dreams were still as insubstantial as this God she continued to habitually call to – then she . . . well, she didn't know what she would do. Get by as before, she supposed.

And yet, some part of her knew that all of it – she and Sweeney's journey last night through the waters; their stroll by the sea; the words they had exchanged; and, more importantly, the words they had not exchanged – was just as real as anything, despite the fantastical quality to it all.

Normally, it was in her nature to go on just as always even under tumultuous circumstances. However, she knew that, were she to try and work today, she would likely end up at best tripping over her skirts all circle, and at worst burning every single one of her pastries and spilling ale on customers' heads and dropping trays of food on her toes.

So Nellie had done what she usually considered a rare, nearly unspeakable thing and taken the circle off from work.

As the chords wore on, she began to wonder if this had been the best choice. She earnestly tried to focus her mind on reading the book in her hands, but without success. She had once been able to fill an entire Sunday curled up on the settee with a book, back when Sundays had existed and days off had been mandatory. Today, her thoughts tumbled around like dandelion seeds in the wind and prevented her from comprehending the printed words.

What had changed? What had happened to turn her unrequited love into one that was shared? Had there been a specific moment that triggered it? Did he still not care (her heart panged) and was just humoring her? Was this an emotion he had been suppressing for a while? Had it crept on him subtly, the way a spider weaves its web with strands so thin and invisible that one doesn't notice until the interlacing strings take up an entire room?

And what did this mean, so far as their relationship went? How would things to be different now? _Would_ things be different now? Some part of her hoped they wouldn't, as illogical as she knew that sounded. Yes, she wanted him to love her . . . but not if that meant altering himself. She didn't want him to change into the man he thought she wanted; her heart already knew.

"Eleanor."

She jumped and clutched the book to her chest, whipping her head up to face her intruder. "Sweeney! Gave me a fright there! You could at least knock, y'know."

Sweeney inclined his head towards her, expression stony. "I learn from the best."

She scowled, but couldn't deny his point.

He perched on the edge of her cot. Her heart thrummed in her throat, sweat sticking her fingertips to the pages of the book. "What are you doing in here?"

She arched an eyebrow. "I'm reading, love. That's what it's called when you've got a book in your hands and your eyes're moving across the page."

"Hard to read when the book's upside-down, isn't it?"

Nellie was not a woman known for demure apple blushes to bloom across her cheeks in moments of coy discomfort or nervous embarrassment, but now she flushed head to toe, hurriedly righting her novel. Despite herself, she found that she was grinning. This fact was not lost on Sweeney.

"Why are you smiling?"

Her eyes twinkled at him but found that she couldn't put her thoughts into words. Nothing was different, as per usual. He being hers – those three words sent a little shiver along her spine and right to her core, flooding over her and radiating through her smile – _he being hers_ – wasn't going to alter who he was as a person.

_Love changes nothing and everything._

She couldn't have been happier.

xxx

"Aren't you going to say anything, Mr. Todd?" said the sneering adolescent girl, who, oddly enough, was not sneering at present.

"I don't know what to say," said Sweeney. "I'm surprised that anyone came."

It was his first art class in a very long time. He had not taught a single lesson since treating Eleanor's burns, since the episode with Turpin at the fires . . . since his pupils had found out that their teacher was a murderer. The man he'd killed was not in the room today, yet for some reason, around two dozen souls were (Griselda Mooney, at least, was finally gone, he noted with satisfaction).

"Why wouldn't we come?" chimed a young pig-tailed girl. "You're still a good teacher, even if you were a bad man when you were alive."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," said Eloise, so quietly that he almost did not hear her. She gave him a trembling smile and his heart clenched, but not painfully. "We can't erase our pasts, but we can always change who we are."

Sweeney cleared his throat. "Well. I suppose we should move on with the day's lesson, then?" They all nodded, and so he proceeded to instruct them in that day's sculpture.

Truth be known, he thought their reactions rather mad. Weren't killers supposed to strike fear in the hearts of others? Then again, perhaps their calm did make sense. Those who were already dead would not be scared by the prospect of meeting death; they knew dying was not something to fear.

After finishing his instructions, he began his habitual pacing about the classroom. As his feet wandered, so did his mind. He had told himself that he would no longer overthink everything. That he would accept life rather than attempt to resist it. But he could not help it; it had only been three nights ago, after all, that he and Eleanor had gone down by the sea and shared something that even now he still did not completely understand . . .

He paused beside the pudgy boy's desk as he drifted back to reality. The child, who normally threw his hand in the air every two minutes wailing his teacher's name, was silent as stone as he slumped over his glob of clay, head down.

"Is something wrong?" Sweeney inquired.

The boy shook his head and sniffed. It was then Sweeney realized he was crying.

Sweeney Todd was not one who generally went out of his way to help others. He was also not very good at mentoring or comforting, which seemed to be what this boy needed right now. But it was his job as teacher to at least attempt both. So he swallowed and knelt down beside the pudgy child's desk. "Boy – " _why have you never learned his name?_ " – what is it?"

The child sniffled again but offered no response. Sweeney gritted his teeth. Well, fine. If the boy couldn't communicate what the problem was, he couldn't expect to receive any help.

_You're his teacher. It's your job to help whether it's easy or not._

He sighed. "Tell me your name, boy."

The child glanced up in surprise, then down again to hide his tears. "Eg-Egmunt Diethelm Seidel."

Quite a mouthful for such a small person. "Egmunt." He did his best to keep his voice soft. "Tell me what the problem is."

Egmunt swiped at his eyes. "I'm hopeless."

"What do you mean?"

He gestured at his distorted piece of clay. "_That._ Look at it. It's awful. Everything I do in this class is awful."

"That isn't true," said Sweeney, even though the lie scalded his throat.

"Yes, it is," Egmunt fired back, clearly beyond being coddled with false praise. "I can't do any of this pottery stuff well. I can't do anything well. I try again and again to find something that I'm good at, but I'm not good at anything." He started to cry again and dropped his chin to his chest so the others in the class would not see. "All I ever do is make mistakes."

"Egmunt."

The boy didn't move.

"Egmunt. Look at me."

Egmunt raised his head.

Sweeney pressed the boy's hunk of clay in his own hands and began to knead it soft. "We all make mistakes, Egmunt." He rolled and pinched the clay between his fingers. "It's part of being human." He withdrew a fettling knife and began making swift, precise cuts. "And if you held every single mistake you or someone else made against them forever, you'd drown in them."

He held out his sculpture to Egmunt. Egmunt's eyes were still red, but he was no longer crying, and he took the pottery piece in his grasp, eyes wide. "What is it?"

Sensing that his work as teacher here was done, Sweeney stood up, but not before answering, "A gillyflower."

xxx

"Eleanor?"

Nellie jumped and dropped her rolling pin on her foot. Cursing, she bent to pick up the utensil, then spun around to face her intruder. "Oh – Barsid – you always have perfect timing, dear – in case you haven't noticed, I'm a wee-bit preoccupied right now, so whatever you want'll just have to wait – "

"Your shop closed two points ago," he said without a trace of the usual smile on his face. "I thought this would be the perfect time to chat – "

"Well love, I'm sorry, but you thought wrong. It just so happens that Esmail's wedding was today – Hadia Abel's son, y'know – and I was asked to bake five of the cakes, which was no easy feat, mind you, 'cause two're s'posed to be Arabian and the other three are s'posed to be Korean, and it's left a great mess in my shop and I don't intend to have all my customers come in and see this tomorrow – "

"Eleanor." His tone was sharp. "We need to talk." He gestured for her to take a seat at one of the tables designed for her customers, but it was more an order than an invitation.

Nellie raised an eyebrow; she couldn't recall a time when Barsid had been angry with her. Usually, she just reaped annoyance. This must have been serious.

"Alright, love," she said, putting down her rolling pin and giving him her full attention, though not taking the proffered chair. "Talk away."

Barsid scratched at a bit of flour on the counter as he scrutinized her. His tone was careful, like the tiptoeing feet of a child awake after his bedtime, when he said, "Do you know where Alexander Turpin is?"

Her throat went dry. She sucked in her cheeks to form saliva and fix this problem. "Why d'you ask?"

"Because he has not been spotted for sixty-two circles."

She couldn't stop her mouth from dropping open; how did he manage to keep track of the circles? Moreover, _why_ did he keep track of them? Hadn't he told her when she first arrived on Is that marking off how long one had been dead only led to melancholy?

"Because his former Is door now bears the name of someone else," Barsid continued flatly. "Because you disappeared around the same time as he did – and yet returned unscathed." The fingers on her left hand – the only place one could still detect a singe mark – twitched. "Because I know you and Turpin are contemporaries, and I know you've been to the nethers."

She held back the words, 'You're sure full of knowledge today.' Now was not the time to be callous. She cleared her throat. "Well, I've vowed not to lie anymore – but Barsid, love, I don't think you'll much like the truth."

Barsid sat down at the table he'd formerly gestured her towards, anger dispelling as he heaved a weary sigh. "Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it won't go away."

Her eyes narrowed. "Who d'you keep quoting?"

He waved a hand in the air. "We don't have the leisure time to ramble, my dear. Please answer the question."

"I just want to know which famous philosopher's words you keep spouting off – "

He shot to his feet with such a look of intensity upon his face that she took a step backwards. "Might I take this moment to remind you, Mrs. Lovett, that though Is may operate with far more peace and enjoyment than Earth, that does not mean that a soul breaking the law is merely glossed over. A spirit has gone missing. If you had anything to do with the disappearance – or know any information related to it – I need to be told now. There are consequences for law breaking – and I assure you that these consequences are not nearly as mild-mannered as the community service bestowed upon Mr. Todd for his little brawl."

Clearly, Barsid Sajemgi meant to intimidate her. And it was working, damn it. Nellie had to take a moment to collect herself before asking, "You weren't by any chance an officer during your Earth life, were you, love?"

He gave a short bark of laughter devoid of any real humor. "Soldier, actually."

She looked at him curiously. "Where were you – "

"Eleanor!"

"Right. Sorry. No more getting off-topic." Blowing out air between her lips, she strolled over to the customer tables and sank into one of the chairs. Barsid sat himself opposite. She shifted, leaning back further in her chair in a futile attempt to become comfortable in its hard-wood frame. "Well – I'd been suspicious that Turpin was plotting something against me and Mr. Todd for quite some time. They have some shared history, see – Turpin and Mr. Todd, I mean . . ."

Barsid, thankfully, was a good listener, for hers was a long story. She told him about the stolen life of Benjamin Barker, the evolution of Sweeney Todd, the struggle in the afterlife between Sweeney and Turpin as well as her suspicions, and the scene that had taken place at the fires.

"So I s'pose that, yes, me and Mr. T are responsible for Turpin not being around anymore," she offered. "But we had no idea what those fires would do – we still don't know what happened to him . . . and can you honestly tell me that him being gone isn't for the best?"

"Alexander Turpin was far from a gentle being," said Barsid carefully. "But from what I've gathered, the same can be said of you."

She winced. "Just – please don't hurt Sweeney . . . he didn't mean to harm Turpin – well, no, he did mean to, but he didn't know what them fires would do – neither of us knew – how could we know – "

Barsid held up a hand and she quieted. "That isn't my intent." She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Though it's clear that Todd did aim to harm Turpin, the reverse is just as true . . . and since it was Turpin who initiated this – ah – attack, this is marked as a case of self-defense. But I will have to investigate further, nonetheless."

"Thank you," Nellie murmured.

He shook his head and stood. "Thank the law, Eleanor, not I."

"Well, the law doesn't contribute much in the way of conversation."

She followed his lead and got to her feet, suddenly wishing that he would not leave. She'd really not had much human interaction as of late – what with the fires and her burns – and now realized how much she'd craved it. Barsid was usually not high on her list of people to interact with; she found him tolerable at best and downright irritating at worst. But he was who was here now.

"Look," she said as he made his way for the door. Barsid paused and turned towards her. "Erm – I know we've never been on the best of terms, and that I haven't always been terribly kind to you . . . but I just wanted to say how much I appreciate what you do – how you always help me out when I need it."

A shadow brushed across Barsid's face, placing a momentary ripple in his forehead and a ghost in his eyes, gone with the next heartbeat. "You're welcome, Eleanor."

"'Cause you don't have to," she rambled on, feeling awkward in the grateful air. "Don't have to help me out, I mean." Her brow wrinkled. "You also don't have to seek me out so much. There's a lot of Is officers around, you could easily send someone else."

"That would go against the principles of friendship, would it not?" Barsid interjected with a smile.

Nellie rolled her eyes. "I don't have any friends, love. The sooner I admit that to myself, the better off I'll be. And I have no idea why you insist on acting as though we're friends."

"I enjoy your company," said Barsid.

The unexplained, genuine tenderness in his voice shook her to the core. "I – why?"

That same shadow kissed his features again, etching dark the youthful lines of his face and filling his eyes with phantoms as he glanced away from her. It was the look she had seen upon his face what must have now been several Earth years ago, back when Sweeney and Turpin had gotten into a fist-fight and she'd gone running to him for help, only to interrupt a moment with his son. It was the look, up until very recently, she had so often seen upon Sweeney's face.

Everyone was haunted by their past. Even spirits like Barsid, who did their best to embrace the life they were given in death, still lay wrapped – trapped – in a quilt patched together from regrets, struggling to unravel the threads and free themselves.

"Nevermind," said Nellie after what felt like an eternity of silence, "it's alright, I'm sorry, it's not my place to discuss with you – "

"It's fine," he interrupted, shaking his head. "We're friends, are we not? You have a right to know."

She bit her lip as he raised his eyes to hers once more. In them, she saw ghosts.

"You remind me of my wife," he said. Her eyes widened. "You always have. I don't say this to make you uncomfortable – and I don't mean to say I'm in love with you," he went on in haste, perhaps mistaking her numb silence for disdain. "But you and she – the two of you share the same dark eyes, the same smile – the same curls that are all at once unruly and beautiful . . ."

His eyes traced over her features as he spoke, skimming across her gaze, her lips, her hair, seeing two women through one. A wan smile appeared on the youthful, wearied face. "Your laugh is the same too – your real laugh, the one that starts in your belly and shakes your whole body, not the polite, short giggles for show . . . she didn't truly laugh much, but when she did it was a loud guffaw and – wonderful. . . . She shared your love for cooking, too."

He shook his head again. "But it's deeper than appearance. What struck me about you first was your passion. The way you desired knowledge instantly upon first coming to Is, that desire to reestablish control – your fierce temper – your adamancy that I answer your incessant questions – your unwavering devotion for Todd, even despite. . ."

He trailed off and she gave a bitter laugh. Barsid's words had stupefied both her mind and body, but the unfinished comment had jarred her alert. "Despite what? That he killed me? Some people might not find that kind of devotion admirable."

"I didn't say whether it was admirable or not, Eleanor – just that it reminds me of her. She too was passionate. Generally, she was not as outspoken as you – it was not acceptable for women to speak their mind in the time and place I lived, you understand . . . but when it came to things she held dear, then her fiery spirit would be unleashed. She would fight to the death for what she believed in, or for those she loved, come hell or high water. Ours was an arranged marriage – as they all were, then – but over the years, as we learned about each other, so too we learned to love . . .

"So your continuous love gives me hope, you see – " his voice went up an octave, threatening to crack, and his eyes were no longer looking at her but beyond her " – gives me hope that, if she has not forgiven me, at least she might have accepted – at least does not loathe me – "

His voice broke and he turned away from her, covering his face with one hand. Nellie stood still for several moments, then – hardly breathing – her feet murmured across the ground until she stood behind him, close enough to see the light stubble he'd never had a chance to shave and inhale his scent of saffron and rainwater. She lifted her hand and placed it on his shoulder, refusing to shift when he flinched at her touch.

"Truth is like the sun," she whispered. "You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't going away."

At first, she wasn't sure if he had heard her – he only continued to stand, immobile, body trembling, head bowed, hand shielding his face. Finally, he straightened and turned towards her. Red veins snaked through the whites of his eyes, but otherwise, he had recovered.

"I left," he said in hollow tones, as though all emotion had been carved away from his soul. "I left and joined the army – well, I was ordered to join . . . she told me not to go, begged for the first time in her life. But I went and – and I died on the battlefield and never saw her again."

"You didn't have a choice," Nellie tried to soothe him, rubbing his shoulder. "If you were ordered – they would've murdered you and your family if you disobeyed – "

Barsid cut her off, voice still depraved of feeling: "We could have fled. Others did. Or I could have given myself an injury that would have made combat impossible. I, of course, had reasons against both these notions, none of which I recall now – not that they would make any difference now even if I did recall them."

"And your wife isn't . . .?" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"No. She isn't on Is."

Nellie swallowed, moistening her dry throat. "Sweeney – Mr. Todd, that is – he somehow managed to visit another afterlife while in the nethers by hopping into a tree of some sort – "

Barsid gave her a wan smile. "My dear, I have been dead far longer than you – I am far from all-knowing, but I know as much as any other seasoned Is officer about the netherlands' wonders. And we know quite a lot."

"Sorry," she muttered, "just trying to help – "

"I know. And I appreciate it. I tried to find her by use of that tree many Earth years ago – oh, yes, I did," he said at her surprised look. "I try to enjoy my life here to the fullest and appreciate what I have now, but that doesn't mean I always succeed. On several of my attempts to find her, I visited the hollowed tree . . . but it requires want on both ends. The person in the separate hereafter must desire to reach the Is spirit just as much as the Is spirit desires to reach them." He looked away. "Apparently my wife desired no such thing."

Nellie squeezed his shoulder and laced the fingers of her free hand into his. Sorry did not seem to express it, nor any other words of pity. So she waited until his gaze shifted back to her before whispering, "I'm glad we're friends."

He gave her his usual grin and they both pretended the corners of his mouth were not still trembling. "So am I, Eleanor. And – thank you."

Footsteps resounded behind her. She jumped away from Barsid on reflex; he did likewise. She threw a glance over her shoulder.

"Oh – hello, love!"

Sweeney didn't reply. His eyes, narrowed and dark, roved back and forth between she and Barsid.

Flustered for reasons she couldn't explain, Nellie ran her fingers through her mass of hair. "Just – give us a minute, alright, dear?"

"It's fine," said Barsid, and when she turned back to him his features were neutral, calm. He smiled at her. "I should be on my way. Plenty to do, as always, and I'm sure you can say the same."

She didn't want him to leave just yet – it didn't seem like the right place to end the conversation – but what more was there to say? Besides, Sweeney's eyes roasting against her skin made the English language very unobtainable at that moment.

"Y-yes," she said, "I'll – I'll see you around."

With a final grin that betrayed not a glimmer of pain _(you're not the only master of deception on Is)_, Barsid stepped through the wall and vanished from view.

Sweeney appeared in front of her so fast he might have descended from the air. Startled, she took an automatic step back, but he only moved another pace forward.

"What were you doing?" he demanded.

Her eyes rounded. "Barsid just came into my shop – and we were chatting for a bit – "

His face contorted. Skin white, lips no more than an almost imperceptible line, eyes tight and burning, he moved ever closer to her, his nose nearly grazing the tip of hers. "_Chatting_ now involves you being curled around his body, does it?"

Didn't the man realize by now that she could never think clearly this close to him? In an attempt to steady herself, Nellie took a deep breath – she inhaled his scent – and that only intensified the fog covering her mind. "I – love, I don't know what you're on about, but Barsid and I're only friends – he was crying, if you must know, and I was doing what any decent person would've done and trying to comfort him – "

"Clearly," he snarled in sardonic tones.

Like a match, his anger ignited her own, and not even his close proximity could quench the sudden fire.

"You really trust me that little?" she shouted, cheeks flushing from the heat of her passion. His eyes widened, the scowl falling off his features in shock. "You honestly think I would toy around with another man? D'you really not understand how I feel for you? I've lived and died and breathed for you and you _still_ don't fucking get it? How can you doubt me for even a moment? How can you still be so bloody stupid? What do I have to do before – "

Hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her forward, and her mouth was smothered by another, cutting off her stream of chatter. Sweeney kissed her with determination but without pressure, knowing he did not need force to persuade her. _He knows me too well,_ was Nellie's last lucid thought, before his touch lulled her away from reality. There was a clatter of metal hitting stone as he dropped his fettling knife and trailed his hand from her shoulder to cup the side of her face. She arched into him and wrapped her arms around his neck –

Then he pulled away – she curved towards him, reaching out – but he took a step back, batting away her hands when she tried to grasp the front of his robes and drag him back to her.

"What – " she murmured dazedly, but with his body not pressed against hers, his spell of intoxication soon shattered. As Nellie snapped back to herself, she straightened, coloring an indignant red and folding her arms across her chest. "What was that for?" she demanded.

Sweeney shrugged, the shadow of a smirk on his face. "Got you to shut up."

She glowered at him, but couldn't muster any true anger now, especially not when a new thought occurred to her. Moments before, after all, he'd stood before her with tense muscles, bared teeth, flashing eyes – and all because of her. Or, rather, she and Barsid.

A smile stole across her face.

"You're jealous," she declared with pride, as though his jealousy was a trophy she'd long coveted winning. "You're jealous of him and me."

She expected him to deny it, expected him to scowl and roll his eyes as he used to when they were alive. So she found herself deprived of all air when he grabbed her around the waist, pulling her close, twirling her in a slow circle as though for a dance. His lips ghosted against her ear as he murmured, "Why wouldn't I be? That stripling had his paws all over you."

Barsid had only held her hand, but Nellie wasn't about to quibble over facts now; she was having enough trouble breathing properly, nevermind speaking. She trailed her hands up his arms, fingering the collar of his robes. "And – and you really think I'd want to philander around with that 'stripling,' love?"

"I couldn't care less if that's what you want," he growled. He nipped at the sensitive spot just below her earlobe; she clutched his robes tighter, suppressing a moan. "You're mine."

She let her body loll against his, trusting him to support her weight, for she no longer trusted herself to do so. She'd waited for long to him to say that – for him to realize. . . . She was trembling all over and could hardly assemble her lips around a whispered, "You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it." He paused. His mouth, which had been trailing kisses and bites along her jawbone, hovered a breath away from her skin, his nose against her cheek. It were as though he were struggling to say something he had not allowed himself to say for too long, and now the words sat, heavy and difficult, on his tongue, waiting for that extra leverage to be released. She found herself holding her breath.

"I love you," he said.

_Her heart bursts open and floods into her mouth; every speck of her skin is on fire, and it isn't painful but instead wonderful, like a scalding bath warming her from frigidity; the sun blinds her eyes and she can't see a thing yet can see everything, for he is silhouetted against the light – _

But this time, it wasn't a fantasy. This was real.

Eyes burning with tears, mouth quivering from both an involuntary smile and her sobs, overwhelming emotion thrumming in her every tendon, she shielded her face in his shoulder. Uncomfortable with her tears, Sweeney tried to soothe her away from crying. She tried without success to explain why she was crying – why she must cry – sobbing and laughing all at once into his shoulder. This did not result in an incredibly coherent explanation – yet he held her all the while, stroking her hair.

Eventually, the fountains of her eyes dried up and she mastered herself enough to draw away from his embrace, breathing steadying. Wordless, she beamed at him for a moment, then threw a glance to the clock – and swore colorfully.

"Oh, God – I'd no idea it was already nearing magenta – haven't even started on dinner yet, I'm so sorry, love – " she hurried towards the oven " – I'll get on that right away, what d'you think you'd like for – "

Sweeney seized her shoulder. "Eleanor. Stop."

She did. She couldn't have done otherwise with him looking at her like that.

"You need to relax," he told her. "We'll eat out tonight."

"I – well – thank you," she whispered.

Sweeney rolled his eyes, slid his hand down the length of her arm to braid their fingers together (her heart gave another quiver), and pulled her towards the wall.

They dined at a debonair place run by two married chefs. The man was Ethiopian, the woman Irish, resulting in the strangest mix of cuisine Nellie had ever seen. To make it all the more strange, Albert and Reyna Lovett were dining several seats over; she still wasn't entirely used to thinking of her former husband as married, much less fit. The Lovetts waved from where they sat, but seemed too immersed in their meal for any interaction beyond that.

"The pair what run this place're too thin to be such good cooks," Nellie muttered under her breath as she tasted her shepherd's pie flavored with Ethiopian spices.

Sweeney glanced at her with raised eyebrows over his vegetable strew and honey wine. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"C'mon, love – surely you've heard the expression 'never trust a thin chef.'"

"Have you not seen a mirror lately, Eleanor?"

"Don't take it so seriously. I was just making a comment. The food is delicious – best shepherd's pie I've ever had." She closed her eyes. "The music is lovely too. 'S'been so long since I've danced."

The clatter of chair legs against the floor propelled her to open her eyes. Sweeney stood over her, hand outstretched, palm up. "Then why don't we?"

Her breath caught in her throat.

He took her hand in his and pulled her to her feet, placing his other hand at her waist as hers fluttered onto his shoulder, and she lost herself in gliding steps and dazzling twirls and his eyes, and she couldn't summon a bit of embarrassment about the fact that they were the only ones dancing.

xxx

"I wonder if this has ever happened before," she murmured into the fabric of his robes as she nuzzled her face against his chest, their feet shuffling and sauntering to the music. "Two people like us ending up like this. Murderer and murderee. Betrayed and betrayer."

He spun her towards the piano player. "I'm sure ours isn't the only unique story."

"No," she agreed, "but it's too bad no one will ever hear ours . . ."

He took his hand off her waist and guided her chin upward so their eyes met, eyebrows drawn. "What are you thinking, pet?"

She frowned. "I'm not quite sure yet. I'm thinking about death and life and love. About you and me . . . but everyone else, too. And about what Reyna Lovett in my shop said to me just before the whole Turpin-fire fiasco. She thinks that everyone on Is is here 'cause we're unfulfilled – that we ran out of time and died before we could complete something we needed to do."

He moved his hand from her chin back to her waist. "So you want to be 'fulfilled'?"

"No. Well, yes. But I think I am now." She traced her fingers along his collarbone, mouth creasing in a smile even as her forehead creased in confusion. "So that got me thinking . . . maybe it's not so much something we've got to do for ourselves, but for someone else."

He began to see where this was going. "Nellie, there's nothing you can do for Toby."

"I know, love, I know, but – "

The tension in her muscles withered and the wrinkles in her skin smoothed, as though the sun had just dawned upon her face. She grinned. "You called me Nellie."

"Well, that's your name," he grunted. She continued to beam in her own sunlight. "But back to this 'fulfillment' idea . . ."

"Oh, I don't want to talk about that anymore." Radiating joy, she pressed closer to him. "Tomorrow's another damn circle. Let's just enjoy this evening."

He rested his chin on the top of her head. "As you wish."

Her body settled deeper into his as they continued to twirl about the room, her face in the crook of his neck, her heart beating in tandem to his, her hair tickling his chin, her fingers curled around his palm. She fit him perfectly; why had he never noticed?

Unaware of their movement, his feet ushered the pair further and further away from the other souls. They passed through the wall and into his room, where they continued to spin to music only they could hear.

"I could do this forever," she breathed into his shoulder.

He couldn't speak, but he hoped they would.

Fancy footwork dissolved into mere steps as minds numbed and hearts heated, and they moved together, revolving and swaying, twirling in surrender. Her hand slipped from his shoulder to his collarbone, fiddling with his robes. They twirled until they hit his bed and their knees gave out as they tumbled upon the mattress.

_So different than before . . . yet so the same._

Life is for those who choose to live.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are love.

Anonymous review replies:

_Emma_: You're a sweetheart. Thank you. Sure, I'm always up for having more fan-fiction friends! Make an FF-Net account and we'll chat. =) However – minor spoiler warning! – no, m'dear, Sweeney and Nellie are dead. So very dead. xD And they shall remain dead for the entire fic. It'd be a little bit of a cheat on my part to suddenly ressurect them, no? Anyway, thank you for R-&-R-ing!

_Lady Musket_: Yes? You're sure that you got it? =P I'm sure you got it, love (though I honestly don't know myself what 'it' you refer to, LOL). I have very smart readers. ^^ Thanks for R-&-R-ing!

_Katkara_: Glad to hear it, m'dear! It was a challenging chapter to write, in terms of balancing all the different emotions and tensions (love, regret, nostalgia, hope, longing, etc, etc), so it's nice to hear that my struggle paid off. ;] Thank you for leaving a review!

_persona fail_: Why, hello new reader, and thank you very much!

_Kristina_: Well, hello there! Thank you for introducing yourself, and I'm delighted to hear that you have been/are enjoying the fic so much. =) To be honest, I don't know if I'll be writing many Toddvett stories after this one. Much as I've loved being in this fandom, I am – at least for the present – a little burnt out from hanging out for six (?!) years with Sweeney & co. But rest assured that I will not stop writing, whether it's ST fan-fic, fan-fic for another fandom, or even –nervous laughter- origi-fic. Anywho, thanks so much for R-&-R-ing!

_Reeces_: Wow, so many new readers! This is so very exciting. ^^ I'm glad that you're liking my fic, and I hope you continue to enjoy it. =) Thanks for stopping by to review!


	33. Attend The Tale

_Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave_

_Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;_

_Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave._

_I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. – Edna Saint Vincent Millay_

xxx

"Mr. Todd?"

Sweeney glanced up from his pottery wheel. "Mr. Lovett." He barely stopped his mouth from hanging open; it was still a shock to see the man looking so bloody young and healthy. And he couldn't understand why Albert Lovett would want to speak with him. Sure, he'd once been his landowner, and they'd talked on occasion . . . but, well, Albert didn't know that.

Albert smiled, shuffling his feet side to side as he clasped his hands behind his back. "I don't know if you noticed, but several nights ago we dined at the same restaurant . . ."

"Yes, I did."

He couldn't recall noticing anything of the sort, actually. Then again, he had been quite distracted by the woman at his table . . . far too much to notice occupants of any _other _table.

"Have a seat," Sweeney offered when Albert continued to merely stand. He halted his pottery wheel and gestured towards a chair.

"Thanks," said Albert as he did as bid. "Well, I just – this is a bit awkward, I'm not really sure how to go about this . . . but I couldn't help but notice who your dining companion was at that restaurant. Back on Earth, she and I were – "

"Married. She told me," he added. As Sweeney Todd, after all, he had no memories of such things.

"Yes, that's right. Well, you know, she's head over heels in love with you – and I just . . . I don't want her to get hurt."

"I – "

_You what? You would never hurt her? _

_Bastard. You already have._

Albert shifted, crossing one leg over the other, then straightening them both, frowning. "It's not that I doubt her strength – she's a tough one, Nellie is, very strong – but while her will is strong, so too is her emotion. When she loves, she loves with everything she has." He sighed. "Always has, as you know."

Stymied by the sudden turn the conversation had taken, Sweeney stammered, "I'm afraid that I don't know – "

"Let's not play these games anymore, Benjamin." Sweeney froze, but Albert smiled. "No reason to look shocked. I've known who you were since I first saw you. You've changed, sure, but it's still Benjamin Barker under that different name and that hardened face. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you?"

"Well," Sweeney muttered, a hint of black humor in his tone, "Aunt Doreen still hasn't."

Albert let out a boisterous laugh, causing Sweeney to jolt. "I think I remember her. That horrible woman with the little yapping dog that she was always kicking around?"

Sweeney felt a smile stretch across his own face. "At least no animals are allowed on Is." Albert chortled again.

The moment of mirth ended; Albert cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "Well, anyway. . . . Nellie has the man she's always loved now."

Sweeney shifted in his chair.

"Don't look uncomfortable," said Albert gently. "I always knew she was in love with you. Ours was a fine marriage, but she never cared about me as she did you. It might've bothered me a little at the time, but it certainly doesn't now. As you've probably seen, I found my soulmate too, in the hereafter."

Sweeney shifted again at the word 'soulmate.' Love Nellie though he did, he still held no faith in any sort of gods, prayer, or destiny. Fate had not created their relationship. They had created it themselves.

_Sometimes it _isn't_ just what it is._

"Nellie now has everything she ever wanted," Albert continued. "I just don't want to see her get hurt by this. I don't want it all to crumble to ruins right before her eyes."

"I will never hurt her again. You have my word."

Albert's eyes narrowed. "Again?"

Albert may not have been in love with Nellie, but it was clear his devotion to her was strong, even after all these years. Sweeney had to admire his tenacity.

"You've been dead much longer than we have," said Sweeney carefully. "Much happened to us during the eighteen years between your passage into the afterlife and mine. I'm sure much happened to you as well."

Albert continued to study the artist with a beady gaze, lips pressed in a tight line. Finally, he nodded. "Fair enough, Benjamin."

Sweeney grimaced. "Todd, if you don't mind."

"Yes, I've been wanting to ask you about that – why the name change?"

"I needed a different one when I escaped from prison. Sweeney Todd is what I'm used to now – it's who I am."

Albert's jaw slackened and dangled half-open. Sweeney grimaced. "As I said, much happened during those eighteen years."

"Clearly," said Albert, closing his mouth and shaking his head. He got to his feet. "Well, Ben – Todd – I won't take up anymore of your time. Thanks for . . . chatting. Glad we finally – cleared the air."

Sweeney nodded, mind already shuffling away from the exchange that had just taken place. "Likewise."

Albert left then, but Sweeney did not turn back to his pottery wheel, instead merely stared down at it. Clearing the air, Albert'd said . . . they'd cleared the air. Waded through potentially dangerous subjects. Tied up unresolved ends. It made sense – for if not in death, then when else could such matters be solved?

So it was that that evening found Sweeney at the door bearing the name _Matthew Thomas Barker_.

"I still don't think I should be here," Nellie muttered in his ear as he knocked. "This is between you and your dad, it's got nothing to do with me. I'm just going to take up space, make things even more thorny – "

"Stay," he intoned. "I need you here."

Her eyes softened. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "This's one conversation I can't help you with, my love."

"I know. Just . . . stay."

Her hand slipped down the length of his upper arm and linked around his elbow. She wasn't going anywhere.

The door opened. His father's face darkened the instant he saw who stood waiting for him.

"Would you like to go have dinner together?" Sweeney asked before his father could say anything.

"I have nothing further to say to you, Benjamin."

His father made to close the door, but Sweeney stuck his foot out, preventing the movement. Perhaps dinner was too ambitious, but he did need to speak. Even if this made not a whit of difference in his relationship to his father, the words needed to be let free.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the deaths I caused – for the blood I spilled. . . . I'm sorry for hurting you."

His father bit his lip, shaking his head in a world-weary way that only a much older man should have been able to. "I might be old, Benjamin, and you might be different . . . but you're still my son, and I still know when you're lying to me. You're not sorry. You don't regret a single thing that you did."

Nellie's arm tightened to a painful degree around his, and he could only guess that his had done the same, for he had lost feeling in the limb.

"That's not true," said Sweeney. "I am sorry. Maybe not as sorry as I should be. People murder one another every single day, even if the physical body remains intact. They lie, swindle, abuse, lynch, massacre with words . . . they are inherently selfish and cruel. They all murder – I shouldn't feel regret for merely being more honest about the ones I committed."

His father's head shook with more vehemence, his eyes screwing shut. "I can't listen to this." He tried again to shut the door, but he was not strong enough. Sweeney prevented the door's closing, exerting hardly any effort.

He could feel Nellie trembling against him. He found her hand and wove their fingers together.

"But living in the hereafter . . . it's forced me to see that some people fight against their inherent selfish, cruel nature. They may not always succeed, but they try to commit acts of good. Or they try to change – they recognize their past murders and resolve to never shed another's blood again . . ."

He dared another look at his father: his eyelids were open now, the shared brown irises melting into his own.

"Every life is a world of possibilities of its own, and none deserves to be extinguished before its flame is out . . . and extinguishing those flames – that never was my decision to make."

There was nothing further to say. Sweeney stood, watching his father remain stationary in his doorway, and waited.

At last, his father moved, bowing his head and folding his lips in a frown. He opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it and shuffled his feet.

Sweeney had never found silence so excruciating. He withdrew his foot from the doorway, preparing himself to have the door slammed in his face, knowing he had done all he could.

So the breath was knocked out of his body when his father spoke, eyes still narrow and mouth still bent in a frown, his words completely out of the blue: "Who is this?"

Sweeney stared at him for a moment, perplexed, then realized that his father had only just noticed Nellie. "Oh – sorry, I forgot to. . . . This is Nellie Lovett."

"G'evening," she greeted with an anxious smile, curtsying.

His father bowed in return, gaze already refocused on Sweeney. He contemplated his son, dark eyes scanning every crease, edge, and pore as an illiterate boy might study a heavy book on medicine: searching for something comprehensible in the midst of an unfathomable blur.

Then he looked at Nellie, his mouth creasing into a bitter smile. "Well," he pronounced, "I'll be invited to the wedding, I hope."

Sweeney looked at Nellie as though for the first time.

"Oh, we're not going to be married – " she began in a rush.

Now his father's smile was genuine, sweet rather than acrid. "A father always knows, my dear. Good-night, both of you." With that, he closed the door.

Nellie's fingers bit into Sweeney's bicep. When he looked down at her, she met his gaze with round eyes and a quivering mouth.

"It's alright," he told her. "It's the best I could've asked for."

"But it – it was hardly what you wanted . . . I mean, he didn't exactly accept your apology – or even acknowledge what you said . . . and he didn't express much desire to see you again – I mean, I s'pose, in a way –but he didn't take up your offer to have dinner together to talk things over a bit – "

"It's alright," he repeated, squeezing her fingers.

"But are you . . ." She bit the inside of her lower lip, making it appear smaller than her upper one. "Are you okay with it?"

Sweeney smiled as he looped their arms together and began to stroll towards the wall: it was past time for their shared bottle of gin. "Yes. I think I am."

xxx

"I've got it," Nellie announced as she barged into Sweeney's shop, limbs quivering from the force of her conviction. Flexing her fingers around empty air, she began to pace about the room. "I've finally got it – what all this is about, I mean – the pieces were all there and I didn't get it before, but now I do – you and Barsid and Toby and Angie and Reyna all laid out the parts for me and I just didn't – "

Sweeney, in the midst of carving something from a block of resper, spared her a single raised eyebrow. "What?"

"I know why we're here," she blurted out. She couldn't stay still; her feet outlined the perimeter of the room, her hands grazing along the walls and mapping invisible roads. "Well, maybe I don't know why we're here, but I know what we've got to do – or what we should do – like Barsid told me, no one'd said those words yet, but – "

"What words?"

" – they still could say them, and they will – because on Earth someone, someday, will be willing to listen – they'll hear if they're willing to listen, Angie told me, and Toby heard me when I apologized – "

"Nellie?"

" – I know he did, I'm sure of it – and maybe it won't fulfill us – I don't think it will, I don't think we can ever be fully 'complete' and I don't think we'll ever leave Is – but it's what we're s'posed to do – I'm sure of it – others need to know – need to know not to live as we did – "

"Nellie," Sweeney barked, loud and firm enough to stop both her babble and her wild footsteps. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She let out a slow breath – even her sigh trembled – and smiled. "Sorry. I'm just – jittery."

He lifted his eyebrow as though to say _'clearly'_ and gestured for her to take a seat. She did so, flopping into her usual place at his dining table, and after setting down his chiseling tools he did likewise.

"Tell me again," he said. "Slowly. In a sensical manner."

"I'll do my best." She drummed her fingers on the table. He pressed his hand over hers to still her fidgeting. "Sorry, love, I'm trying. Anyway . . . it's all been starting to come together for me. All this – afterlife mystery stuff, different things people've said to me . . ."

His forehead was furrowed; he wasn't following. She decided to try a different approach.

"Remember how some odd circles ago I started talking about how no one's ever going to hear our story? And Reyna, when she was in my shop some time ago, told me how she thinks everyone on Is ran out of time on Earth before they could do something they were meant to?"

"Yes . . ."

She inhaled deeply. "I think we need to tell our story."

Sweeney studied her, silent.

"Think about it," she hurried on, "it makes sense. I know Toby's willing to listen to me, since he has before. So I'll pop back to Bedlam, and during his interrogations – he's always being interrogated by the guards, they want to know what happened at 186 Fleet Street – I'll help him speak. He usually doesn't say anything . . . but if I help him fill in the gaps of the story, the parts he doesn't know, then he'll talk – then the truth'll be out. It'll travel fast by word of mouth – and then everyone'll know – "

"Eleanor . . ." Sweeney's face was drawn, posture stiff, but she couldn't construe his emotions. "This is ludicrous – "

"Just let me finish. Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I really think this is what we're s'posed to do. I'm not fond with the notion of all of London knowing about my life . . . but I think people should know what happened. They should know about our partnership – our businesses – our lives . . ."

"Why?" he droned, running a thumb over the flat side of his fettling knife and tracing the movement with his eyes; her muscles clenched at the bitterness in his tone. "To despise us even further? To destroy what's left of our former home? To fear and loathe the ghosts of two demons?"

"To learn from our mistakes," she replied quietly. "To not make those same mistakes themselves."

"You want us to become characters of a childhood fable," he sneered at his blade.

His hand still covered hers on the table. She flipped hers over so their palms touched and locked their fingers together, waiting until his eyes found hers before speaking: "I want us to be a lesson – a warning."

They looked at each other. Sweeney broke the stare first, peering again at his fettling knife, but he didn't untwine their hands. "So," he said in monotone, "you've told me how Toby, Angie, and Reyna helped you with the pieces of this epiphany – how did Barsid help? And how did I help?"

"Well, Barsid's always spouting off these things that sound like quotes from a philosopher. Like, 'There is always some madness in love, but there is also always some reason in madness.' Or, 'Truth is like the sun – it ain't going away.' And once when I asked if someone famous had said them before, he grinned his usual grin and said, 'Not yet.'"

She paused, searching Sweeney's face, but he had donned his well-worn mask of apathy.

"So," she went on, deciding to take his non-reaction as a positive one, "that makes me think that, even though visiting Earth isn't technically allowed or supported by the Is officials, souls do it all the time . . . I think one day someone's going to pass on those words to a living being, who'll then spread them across the world. I think things like that've already happened a million times over – the dead passing on words to the living, I mean – and we just weren't aware of it.

"As to how you helped out with this realization – " she grinned a little " – well, it's more your story than it is mine, wouldn't you say?"

His gaze climbed back up to meet hers, dark and rapt. "You're serious, aren't you? You really have faith in this?"

The strength of his stare dried her throat; she had to swallow before she could speak again. "More than I've ever had faith in anything."

He nodded, turning his eyes down again, lips unmoving.

"What're you thinking, love?" she couldn't help but query.

"I don't like the idea of all of London knowing," he confessed. "I don't like the idea of them knowing about my family, what Turpin did to me – all that my hands did . . ." His fingers tightened around hers. "I don't like the idea of you returning to Earth to see Tobias. And I don't think this makes sense, either."

He looked at her. "But if you truly believe in it . . . I'll help however I can."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** You guys. One more chapter plus the epilogue. And I am going to try to post them both within the next 10 days. Is this possible? I do not know. But I am going to try. Because I love you all.

Reviews are love.

Anonymous review replies:

_Meow_: Your inspiration? Me? Oh, shucks, you're making me blush. =3 Thank you, love. I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

_Emma_: I am going to assume that is a good thing? Haha. Thanks for reviewing, m'dear!

_persona fail_: Well, if that was the best thing you ever read, should I just throw in the towel now? xD No, I jest. Thank you, though. I hardly think I am qualified to rank among the best, but I certainly don't mind hearing so. ;] Thanks for R-&-R-ing!


	34. The History Of The World

_Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy. – Eskimo Proverb_

xxx

"This isn't going to work."

Nellie shot him a glare from where she sat on the ground beside Toby. "What the hell happened to 'I'll help however I can,' hmm?" She did not mean to sound so loud or so angry; the chattering voices of the insane were starting to scratch at her heart, increasing how powerless she felt to aid these poor people, increasing how inconsequential it felt to think she could make a difference in the world by passing along the story of she and her lover.

Increasing her irritability.

Sweeney, face creased with pain, knelt down beside her. "Nellie" – her heart still gave a little thrill every time he used her preferred name – "we've been here for three Earth days. We can't stay much longer without risking ourselves." His thumb brushed over her cheekbone. "Your skin is already tinting gray."

"Just a little longer," she pleaded, lowering her voice, even though Sweeney now had to lean closer to hear her above the din of the maddened souls surrounding them. "Humor me. We'll stay just a bit longer, then we'll go."

He sat back on his heels. "Pet, we don't even know how long has passed since our deaths anymore. For all we know, a decade has gone by, and the guards stopped questioning Tobias years ago."

"Does this look like a boy who's twenty-three?" Nellie demanded, pointing at Toby.

"No," Sweeney returned. "But he certainly doesn't look like a boy anymore either."

Nellie swallowed and laced her fingers together. "One more Earth day. If the sun sets one more time without him being pulled in for interrogation, then we'll go back to Is."

"It doesn't necessarily have to be Toby. Perhaps our story could be passed on through someone else."

Nellie's neck trembled as her head swayed back and forth. "No. It's got to be Toby. He's the only one in a million years who still has the remotest possibility of being willing to hear me. Besides, he already knows bits and pieces of what happened – picked up on a lot more than we gave him credit for, he did, clever boy – "

Her throat constricted.

Sweeney took her hand. "This is why I didn't want to come back here."

She shook herself, clearing her throat and pulling her hand away from his – the gesture was too warm, too caring; it brought tears closer to the surface.

"I'm fine, love," she said. "Anyway, my point is that Toby already knows some things. It's hard enough as it is for the living to hear us. But since he already knows some of it, even if he only hears snatches of what I say, he can better piece it together."

"Nellie, I don't think he can piece anything together. He's not in his right mind."

"That doesn't mean he's stupid."

From the way his lips were pressed together, she could tell Sweeney was none too happy with this reply or her plan. He did keep his mouth shut on the matter though, which she was thankful for. He may not have understood, but this was the right thing to do. She was sure of it.

_Slam!_

Nellie jumped, no longer accustomed to the heavy door's loud noises or the way the walls vibrated from its swinging open and shut. Two guards entered the room, closing the door with another _slam_; two more stayed outside, monitoring, in case the inmates became wild and attacked.

Nellie held her breath as the men approached. "Alright, up you get," one of them grunted as they each grabbed underneath one of Toby's arms – she had to turn her gaze away – and hauled him to his feet. "Time for another round of questions."

Nellie shot Sweeney a look of bitter triumph as she rose to her feet. Frowning, he followed suit.

The guards lugged Toby through the labyrinth of corridors, Sweeney and Nellie trailing along behind. Nellie did her best not to shiver, but from the way Sweeney kept darting her narrowed glances, her success was dubious. She hated being back here, had told herself she would never again put herself through this, would never again force herself to witness what her boy had fragmented into . . .

_Stop it. Keep your head up. You're doing this partly for him – he won't have to be repeatedly tortured by these monsters anymore if he gives them the information they want. That's better than any whispered apology could ever be._

"Here we go," said one of the men – Ralph, she remembered – as they entered the room and threw Toby into the chair set in the middle of the floor. Another man – Henry, she recalled with a shudder; he was the most brutal, the most determined to wrench information regarding 186 Fleet Street from Toby's scrambled mind – was leaning against the wall.

"Thanks, Ralph," he said as Ralph closed the door, barricading Toby's way lest he tried to escape. This seemed unlikely: Toby, knowing what was coming, had already curled into a ball on the chair, knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth as he tried to soothe himself:

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't turn the grinder because they didn't know the secret, three times's the secret – "

"So we've heard," Henry drawled, earning a laugh from Andrew, the other man who'd brought Toby to this room.

She clenched her hands into fists, nails sawing into flesh.

_Be strong. Toby needs you to be strong. Keep your broken promise: don't let anything else harm him._

Henry pushed himself away from the wall and strode towards Toby, kneeling down so they were on eye-level. Toby cowered and didn't make eye-contact, but wisely, he chose not to sing anything further.

"Do you know what year it is, Tobias?" Henry inquired in an oily voice of gentility that prickled her skin. "It's 1846."

"Oh God," Nellie breathed; Sweeney put a firm hand on her shoulder.

"The new year came in just last month," Henry went on. "1846 . . . that means that, come August, you'll have been here four years."

"August," Toby echoed, his eyes growing huge and flying to Henry's. "August – it all went up in flames in August – she went up in flames – it was all on fire, the whole city . . ."

"What was on fire?" Henry asked with new urgency, clearly aching to get new information during Toby's moment of clarity. "Who went up in flames?"

"The house – the house is on fire . . . but the ladybug won't fly away . . ."

"Toby, focus – "

"Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home," he crooned, "your house is on fire and your children are all gone, all except for one and that's little Ann – "

Henry whirled and slammed his fist against the wall. Toby's song ceased at once and he resumed his rocking, balling his knees even tighter to his chest and humming a continuous note under his breath, likely to calm himself. Nellie made an instinctive moment towards him, but Sweeney's fingers pressed deeper into her shoulder. "Wait," he whispered. "Please."

"For what?" she hissed back, blinking furiously against her looming tears. "He needs me, Sweeney."

"Dammit!" Henry shouted, oblivious to the spirits' distress. "I can't ever get anywhere with you! I can't find out anything . . . it's all there . . . I know you know what happened in that house – I know you know about the barber and the baker and the pies . . ."

Sweeney ran his hand across the back of her neck, stretching out his arm until it lay curled around her shoulders, pulling her securely against him. "Just wait until things have calmed," he whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And a specific question would be best – simple, straightforward answers are likely what Tobias will comprehend. We don't want to confuse him any further."

Swallowing, fighting the dampness in her eyes, she nodded against his shoulder, her mind knowing his words – however much her heart ached to protest them – made sense.

"I don't mean no disrespect," Ralph piped up from where he still stood by the door, "but you losing your temper does nothing to help the kid."

Slowly, Henry straightened, removing his fist from the wall. "You're right," he said in level tones, turning again to Toby and kneeling down beside him. Toby continued to hum and rock, gaze steady on his feet.

"Alright, Tobias," said Henry; his unusually soft voice managed to ease Toby away from his humming. "Let's try this again. How about we start with something easy: did you make the pies?"

"Three times's the secret – that's how the meat gets so tender and juicy."

"Yes, you've told me – but did you bake the pies?"

Slipping out from Sweeney's grasp, Nellie approached Toby until she stood at his shoulder, slightly behind him. She leaned over, settling her hands on his shoulders and watching them glide right through his flesh, her mouth close to his ear as she breathed, "No. Mrs. Lovett did."

When she had whispered her apology to him so long ago, Toby's head had shifted, twisting side to side, as though trying to determine where her phantom voice came from. Today, Toby did not even twitch. She might as well have not said a word to him. Her heart clenched: was he no longer willing to hear her?

"Did you bake the pies?" Henry asked again, a touch of irritation already seeping into his tone.

"Best pies in London, they are," said Toby, fingers scrabbling against the arms of the chair. "Mrs. Lovett, she's a fine cook, she's a real lady – "

Henry gritted his teeth. "Answer the question, boy."

"No," said Nellie into his ear. "Say no. Mrs. Lovett made the pies."

" – and Mr. Todd, why yes, he's upstairs – he gives the best shaves in London – no, I s'pose you can't take my word for it, I'm a bit young still yet to need a shave, but yes, do go see for yourself – but men ain't like women, they ain't like what you can trust – "

"The _pies_, boy. Did you bake them or not?"

"No," said Nellie, her volume rising along with the others in the room, and knelt just to the left of Toby's chair, her hands upon _(you mean slipping right through) _his knees. "No. Mrs. Lovett made the pies. I had nothing to do with it."

" – look mum, I'm making pies all on my own – "

"Not even playing nice works with you, does it, boy? I'm going to ask you one more time before we resort to a different method, see if pain works any better – "

"Tell them, Toby," she begged. "Tell them I baked the pies. Tell them you had nothing to do with it."

" – but I've lived and learned – "

"Nellie," said Sweeney, his volume high but his tone soft, "he can't hear you."

"Alright, boy, if that's how you want it to be, then fine – "

"Say no – say Mrs. Lovett made the pies," Nellie shouted, and she didn't know she was crying until she felt her damp cheeks. "Just tell him no – "

"_No,"_ Toby whispered.

The room fell silent. Nellie's heart thrashed about inside her, clobbering against her ribs.

"No – what?" Henry seemed afraid to even breathe the words.

"Mrs. Lovett made the pies," said Toby, eyes steady on his knees, which had ceased rocking.

"I – I had nothing to do with it," Nellie prompted him, hammering the sounds through her constricted throat.

"I had nothing to do with it," Toby pronounced.

Henry blinked, stymied. "So – all those people – the barber killed them, not you?"

Nellie threw a glance over her shoulder at Sweeney, trying to gauge what he was feeling. Blank ebony eyes was the only response she received. Swallowing, she turned her head forward. "Yes," she said to Toby.

"Yes," said Toby, his head twitching to the left – towards her – as though shaking off a fly.

"Who killed the barber, then?" questioned Henry.

Nellie closed her eyes. "I did."

"I did," Toby told him.

"Why did you do that?"

Andrew snorted. "You're honestly expecting a rational explanation from a madman – "

"_Shut it,"_ Henry growled.

Nellie peeked over her shoulder again, motioning for Sweeney to come closer. He only stared at her. He may have been willing to support her in doing what she believed was right, but taking a plunge into this situation himself seemed to be another matter entirely.

"Please, love," she whispered. "I wasn't there for this part – I don't know . . ."

The air between barber and baker was finally open, free of secrets and lies – but this was one subject they had yet to broach: Sweeney's death. Toby becoming a murderer.

His face was hard, eyes lightless. "Nellie . . . I don't . . ."

"Tobias?" Henry prompted. "Why did you kill the barber?"

Toby's head twitched twice more, once to the right and once to the left, searching for her voice even when it did not come – yet again, she was failing him.

"Sweeney, please," she said.

Sweeney did not move.

"Come on, Tobias – tell me – don't retreat from me now, not when we're so close to actually getting somewhere . . . Tobias – " Henry's volume lifted " – don't make this more difficult than it is – "

Nellie shut her eyes and shielded her face against Toby's shoulder, pretending she could still feel, pretending he was still warm and she was still alive and they still believed with the intensity and naivety of children that they would always protect each other . . .

"The barber had harmed too many people," said Sweeney.

Nellie's head snapped up, eyes flying open and colliding into Sweeney's. He stood opposite where she knelt, at Toby's other shoulder.

"The barber harmed too many . . ." Tobias muttered, beginning to rock again – she guessed that hearing Sweeney's voice had agitated him.

"And he killed my mother," said Sweeney, his eyes never leaving hers.

Toby flinched as though struck, the pace of his rocking increasing. "And he killed – he killed her . . ."

"Killed who?"

"Mother – never had a mother – nothing's gonna harm me – Mother – Mother – Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her poor doggie a razor – "

"Shh, Toby," Nellie soothed, longing to smooth down the cowlick in his hair the way she used to. "It's alright. No one's going to hurt you."

"Not while I'm around," he cried out, and she couldn't tell if he had heard her or not.

"Not this time," she vowed.

"Okay, Tobias," said Henry calmly. She had never seen him so patient; perhaps finally getting a taste of what he wanted – information – had satiated him. Or perhaps seeing how broken his patient truly was had, if not softened, at least numbed him. "You're fine, see? Now . . . well, how about we ask a different question."

Toby, however, was still disquieted, unable to stop babbling. "Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a purse – that's Signor Pirelli's purse – we've got to get the law here – "

"Tobias – "

"Toby, hush darling, it's alright – "

But he continued blathering, drool beginning to spill from his lips and garbling his speech, eyes bugging from their sockets. The portrait of madness. "Sing a song of sixpence – singing – sing – sing with red curls – her red curls . . ."

"What did he say?" Henry demanded of Ralph and Andrew, the brusque, cruel guard returning to his demeanor. "I can't understand him when he's drooling like an idiot."

"Dunno," said Ralph, "something about dead pearls, I think . . ."

"You're the idiots," Nellie seethed, "what the hell is logical about 'dead pearls'? Doesn't even make an ounce of sense – "

"Nellie," said Sweeney warningly. "Not now."

" – red curls – red like blood, red like rain, rain rain go to Spain – rain – "

"Ralph, I still can't tell what the boy's going on about – here, boy, wipe your mouth on this here cloth, maybe then I can tell – "

" – rain, red rain – red curls – sing with red curls – "

"I've got it!" Ralph exclaimed. "String with dead pearls, sir, that's what he's saying – "

"_What?"_ Nellie and Henry shouted.

" – when the pie was opened the birds began to sing – "

"Even if that is what he's saying, Ralph," said Henry, finally wiping Toby's mouth himself with a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, "it doesn't make any sense – "

"Just hear me out, sir. When the officers searched the place, up in the barber shop they found a string of pearls beneath one of the floorboards – maybe it's important – must be important, since the boy's bringing it up – "

" – oh wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the barber? – "

"Maybe the barber stole it from one of his clients," Henry suggested, cottoning on to his fellow guard's idea. "I bet that's why he murdered all those people – for the riches – "

"Those were Lucy's," Sweeney growled, his whole body shuddering with rage. "A birthday present once – I didn't even know she had kept them . . . as if I would murder for reasons as petty as money – "

"We knew the story would get distorted," said Nellie, determined to stay calm in the midst of the chaos: someone had to, after all, and everyone else had clearly lost their heads. "We were prepared for some details to get twisted."

"This is not a 'detail,' Eleanor – "

" – savory and sweet pies, as you'll see – plenty of pies – said Simple Simon said to the pieman, 'Let me taste your ware' – "

"Stop whining," Nellie snapped, flushing a furious shade of red. "You think I like the idea of us being made out as a pair of treasure hunters? Well, I'll have you know that I don't. I'm going to do my best to fix it, alright? I'll tell them about our motives and our pasts – that'll clear up any thought of us being after riches. But it'd be damn helpful if you'd shut your mouth first so I can actually hear myself think. And why the hell are you grinning like an idiot?"

Sweeney shrugged, his mouth still curved in the suggestion of a smile. "You're very pretty when you're angry."

She reminded herself to breathe – and _not_ to smile back. "If you told me that at any other moment, I'd be swooning on the floor, love – but this really isn't the time or place."

" – no other meat pie can compete with this delectable – "

"Alright, Tobias, calm down," Henry was saying. "Tobias – come on . . ."

" – the crust so – "

"Toby," Nellie breathed, rising to her feet but bending over so that their cheeks, had she been alive, would be touching. "Shh. Hush, love. Everything's okay." He stopped babbling, but continued to rock and forth. "Just relax, darling. Everything's fine."

Toby's rocking slowed, the sways diminishing in size until he sat completely still.

Henry's brow furrowed; he seemed confused by the sudden quiet. "Well. Erm – let's talk about something else, shall we, Toby?"

With a single glance at Sweeney, Nellie murmured to Toby, "They weren't after money."

Toby didn't say anything.

"How about we talk about how you got there," said Henry, leaning back on his heels. "How did you wind up at 186 Fleet Street?"

"Please, Toby," said Nellie. "I'm trying to help you. Please listen to me. Say they weren't after money."

"They weren't after money," said Toby, and Nellie expelled a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

"What?" said Henry. "What're you talking about?"

"The barber and the baker," said Nellie.

"The barber and the baker," repeated Toby.

"Ohh-kay," Henry drawled. "What were they after?"

"The barber did it for revenge," Nellie said with difficulty. Doing the right thing didn't mean it was easy: it was damn hard, in fact, talking about their lives as if they were characters in a childhood bedtime story, rather than actual humans who had once lived and breathed just as these beings did now.

"The barber did it for revenge . . ." echoed Toby.

As she continued to tell the story – their story – Sweeney reached over and took her hand. "Mrs. Lovett," he whispered, giving her a rare, beautiful smile, "you're a bloody wonder."

She squeezed his fingers and whispered in return, "Let's keep living, love."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **My sincerest apologies for not replying to reviews yet, but I figured that having a new chapter sooner and review replies later is better than having BOTH later, yeah? I will certainly reply to everyone before posting the epilogue (?!), never fear.

Reviews are love, my dear readers - now more than ever, since we are so near the end . . .


	35. Epilogue: Beginnings

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Stephen Sondheim, Christopher Bond, Tim Burton, Friedrich Nietzsche, Elvis, or any of the others that Sweeney and Nellie have taken a few liberties with in this chapter.

* * *

><p><em>We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will. – Chuck Palahniuk<em>

xxx

_-1846-_

"It's happened."

Sweeney rushed to her. Nellie stood to one side of the market, peering over the shoulder of a ragged boy of perhaps twelve years who had his nose stuck in a penny dreadful.

"See," she said, pointing. "The story's already traveling, just nine months after Toby told those guards. Look – that's your name."

Sweeney glared at the printed pages. "'The barber himself was a long, low-jointed, ill-put-together sort of fellow'? With an 'immense mouth,' 'huge hands and feet,' and a 'hyena-like laugh'?" He gave her a look of disgust. "This is how I'm to be remembered?"

Nellie waved him away with an airy hand. "Oh, love, it's not your physical appearance that matters – so long as they got the actual story right."

"Really?" he sneered. "Well, let's see how they've described you, shall we?"

"I'm not in this first chapter," Nellie returned snidely, but Sweeney had already refocused upon the penny dreadful, eyebrows drawing nearer and nearer together as he read, resulting in a nearly continuous line.

"It's all wrong," he murmured.

"Love, it doesn't matter what they think you look like, we didn't tell our story to be immortalized as beauties – "

"Nellie," he said, shaking his head. "They've butchered it. It's no longer a warning to not live as we did. It's a story of a man starved for money."

"Well, it's only the first chapter," Nellie tried to reason with him, even as her own stomach plummeted. "It might get better."

It didn't. It got progressively worse as more chapters were released.

"At least they describe me as 'young and good-looking,'" said Nellie with a little grin as her eyes scanned over the latest installment.

"Yes, and that in your eye there sat a 'lurking devil,'" said Sweeney, who was a faster reader than she.

Nellie shrugged, elbowing her lover in the ribcage. "That's not exactly untrue, dear."

He shifted his gaze from the penny dreadful and met her eyes. "Nellie, I know you're trying to remain optimistic, but there's nothing to be optimistic about. The story journeyed through too many mouths – the truth's become muddled in fabrications and misheard phrases."

Her forehead creased. "I didn't intend for it to be like this. I didn't want it to turn into a silly little story, I wanted it to be real, teach a lesson . . ."

"I know. I'm sorry, pet."

She sighed and leaned into him, sheltering her face against his shoulder.

"Should we declare this a failure, then?" he murmured into her hair. "Return to Is – no more trips to Earth for either of us – and forget this ever happened?"

"What?" Nellie cried, pulling away from him. "Absolutely not."

He frowned. "But – "

"We're not done," Nellie announced. "Our story isn't done. Look at this, Sweeney – we've made it into a penny dreadful. No, the story itself isn't even close to accurate. But we originally told this story to Toby and some Bedlam guards. Think how far our story traveled before being heard by the eventual writer of this horrid tale. And if our story already has that much momentum, who knows where it'll go next?"

She smiled at him. "And who knows how accurate the next one'll be?"

_-1847-_

"This damn string of pearls . . . it had nothing to do with anything in reality. But in this fabled version of our story, it's treated like the bloody holy grail."

"It's alright, dear."

"Just one garbled phrase – just one neglected trinket beneath a floorboard – and suddenly a piece of jewelry is of utmost importance . . ."

"I know, love. It's alright. Why don't you just hush and enjoy the play, hmm?"

He turned to face her, raising a single eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe enjoy was the wrong word – I'll admit it's far from spectacular. . . . At least they made your trapdoor barber chair pretty impressive, eh?"

He eyed the stage. "Mine was better."

_-1875-_

"Did this version get anything right?"

Sweeney's eyes scanned the page. "So far, it's the same as the others in terms of accuracy." He tapped his foot, glaring at the man who held in his lap an anthology of plays. "This actor reads too slow. This is one of the worst parts of having no corporeal body: being unable to turn the pages of a book on Earth."

"It's probably a good thing you can't, love. You'd frighten the poor man to death if his book started turning pages of its own accord."

Sweeney frowned. "And there's still absolutely no mention of the judge. How did Turpin become excluded?"

Nellie's mouth creased downward to match his. "That's been bothering me too. I guess since now you and me're just slaughtering people to get wealthy, he wasn't needed."

Sweeney, disgusted, shook his head. "One day," he vowed, looking at her, "it's going to be told right."

She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't believe in this whole shenanigan?"

"I don't," said Sweeney flatly. "But if the story has to be out in the world, then it should be true."

"But how could we pass it on? I don't think there's anyone still on Earth who'd be willing to listen to us."

Toby had passed away three Earth years back. She had hurried back to Is at once after she'd seen his limp body in Bedlam, hating herself for feeling so joyous about a death yet simultaneously already shaking with excitement . . .

Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg, _she thinks again and again and again as she steps towards the wall. _Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg . . .

_She tries to tell herself not to get her hopes high. She knows the pain will be worse if her anticipation is raised. There's no guarantee that Toby hasn't gone to some other afterlife._

Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg –

"_Mum?"_

_It's a good thing he's dead, otherwise the hug she yanks him into would crush the life from him. She grins and sobs and laughs all at once at having the twelve-year-old boy she never forgot, but sometimes strained to remember, in her arms again._

"_It's okay, mum," he says, gripping her in return, and she marvels at how she can again hold him without sliding right through his body, how real his touch is. "I'm right here."_

"It doesn't need to be someone we know, does it?" Sweeney questioned.

Nellie shook herself, clearly away the tendrils of the memory. "I – I don't know, love. Angie made it seem like it had to be a person you'd had a relationship of some sort with . . . but it might not have to be. Maybe we could poke around some desperate, starving writers and try to tell them the missing bits?"

Sweeney shrugged and straightened himself. "It couldn't hurt." He held out his hand to her. She linked their fingers, and together they left the house and began to stroll the streets of London.

She couldn't help but stare at their entwined grips as they walked. Sweeney, noticing this, said, "You might walk through less people if you kept your gaze forward."

Nellie grinned. "I'm just admiring our rings. I never – I just can't believe we're actually married."

"I figured I'd kept your rumpled bedding unlegitimized long enough."

She beamed at him. "You remembered my song."

"How could I not?"

She was smiling so hard her face hurt.

"After all, you shouted the whole thing in my ear," he continued, smirking. The smile on her face dropped into a scowl. "I think I lost a bit of hearing that day."

_-1928-_

"The silent film's certainly an interesting medium, don't you think? Frankly, I'm still amazed at how much technology's improved in less than a hundred years. Just think – we didn't even know what a film was when we were alive – "

"It's still not right," Sweeney muttered. "Eighty years since the penny dreadful and these damn humans still can't get the story right."

"I tried to fix it, love," Nellie sighed. "Believe me, I tried."

"I know you did, Nellie. I'm not blaming either of us."

"I've talked to at least a hundred writers," she went on. "I've even tried talking to some non-writers, actors and theater owners and the like, in the hopes that they'd pass on the ideas to friends who were writers. No such luck. They can't hear us."

"We'll keep trying," he promised her.

_-1936-_

"Tod _Slaughter_," Sweeney sneered as he gazed at the film poster. "What a fitting name. They must have cast him solely for that reason."

"Slaughter happens to be a fine actor," Nellie said defensively. At Sweeney's lifted eyebrow, she snapped, "Well, have you even_ seen_ this version?"

"No," said Sweeney. "When did you?"

"I snuck down during my lunch break a few circles ago," she confessed. "Slaughter does a fine job. He acts nothing like you, of course, but that's to be expected, considering you've been written like the usual macabre villain."

"Why are you going to such lengths to defend and praise this actor?" He paused. "Don't tell me you fancy him."

"Hardly," Nellie sniffed. "I've just got a deeper appreciation for the arts than you do, I s'pose."

_-1970-_

"I've found our writer," Nellie hissed excitedly.

"What?" said Sweeney, baffled, glancing around: she had brought him to a middle-class, one-story home that he normally would not have looked at twice. "Nellie, where are we?"

"His name's Christopher. He's perfect. Just follow me." She led him through a series of hallways, eventually arriving in an office cluttered with scripts, pens, crumbled pieces of paper, open books, and glossy magazine cut-outs. In the midst of all this chaos sat a desk with a young man slumped over it.

Nellie gestured him closer to the desk, pointing triumphantly at a parted notebook. Sweeney leaned forward to read its contents:

_There's no life to melodramas anymore. Once the medium affected people, twisted their minds and moved their souls. Now it's merely cheap entertainment. I want to breathe life back into it, but I have no script. I don't even have an idea. If I don't have a new script written by Wednesday_

The thought ended there, as though the fate were too horrible to even pen.

"Nellie," said Sweeney, "we've already tried talking to writers – millions of them throughout the past century – and it's never – "

The man's head jerked up, eyes diving around the room.

Nellie grinned. "This one's willing to listen."

The man's head jolted again, ears twitching. "Who's there?" he called out, craning his neck around his doorway as though searching for intruders. Then he slumped over his desk again. "I'm going mad . . ."

"We're all mad, love," said Nellie; the man bolted upright in his chair again, sweat pooling on his forehead. "It's just the world we live in."

Sweeney took her by the arm and led her out into the hallway. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Nellie?" he asked quietly. "He's terrified – and this seems dangerous . . ."

She waved this away. "He'll think it was all a dream. Barsid told me that Nietzsche did."

"What?"

"'There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.' Remember that?"

"Of course." How could he not? Those were the words she'd said to him during their evening by the sea, an evening over an Earth century ago that still shone crystal clear in his memory.

"Well, Barsid said them to me first . . . and he later passed on the saying to Friedrich Nietzsche. He was panicked too at first, Barsid told me, but later he just believed it'd come in a dream. And even if they don't believe it was a dream – well, that's alright. People've been telling stories about dead people for years – millions of them."

"'Millions of them'?" he questioned dubiously. "Name one other."

She grinned. "You know Elvis, I'm sure?"

"What does he have to do with – oh. 'Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time – "

" – but it ain't going away.' Exactly. See? This happens all the time with people what're looking for inspiration. Sometimes they just need a little help from the other side."

She paused, searching his face for a reaction.

He smiled. "Well, then – go get 'em, tiger."

She grinned back and started towards the office, then stopped, whirling back around to face him with narrowed eyes. "'Tiger'? You've been reading those Spider-Man comics again over little boys' shoulders, haven't you?"

"Better them than those Harlequin romance novels you fawn over."

She scowled and stalked into the office. As he followed her inside, he could already hear her speaking to the writer:

"It's time to bring life back to melodrama. Tell the story of Sweeney Todd – but make the characters breathe for goddamned once."

Sweeney smirked. This was why she was the story teller and not he. He may have been the main character, as she was fond of saying . . . but she was the natural narrator.

"Give them a believable story," she continued. "Make the goal not wealth, but revenge . . ."

_-1975-_

"So – when you're not reading comic books designed for males less than half your own age, you spy on married couples while they sleep?"

"I don't regularly spy on married couples – nor do I read comics."

"Did you know that Peter Parker was sent to prison?"

"Eleanor, I haven't read that one yet!"

"Eleanor, hmm? It's been a few Earth years since you've used my full name. You must be very upset by me spoiling the latest issue of a comic book that you _don't read_ . . ."

"Fine. I read Spider-Man. It's enjoyable and the quality of writing is surprisingly high. But I do _not_ regularly spy on married couples while they sleep."

"Mmhmm. So what makes these two special?"

He gestured towards sheets of lyrics, spread out on the nightstand of the house they were currently in, and she scanned the pages.

"It's a song about me," he said. "Aptly named _Sweeney Todd, The Barber_."

"Hmm." She scanned the words. "You're not painted in a very flattering light."

"Oh, I'm used to it by now, my dear."

_-1979-_

"Didn't I tell you that Christopher Bond fellow was the perfect writer for us?"

"Yes, Nellie. You were right. You were right. You were absolutely right. How many times do I need to repeat this?"

"Just once more."

He sighed. "You were right."

"And now we're a _musical_, can you believe it?"

"It's _shocking_," he replied, mimicking her dramatic tone.

"I do love a good musical. And ours is quite good, if I might say so myself. Sondheim is a genius. Did I ever take you along with me to see _Gypsy_?"

"More than once, unfortunately."

"What on Earth d'you have against _Gypsy_?"

"Nothing. But there's only so many times a person can hear about how everything is coming up roses."

Nellie rolled her eyes. "This fellow playing you – what's his name again?"

Sweeney peered at a playbill lying on the lobby floor. "Cariou."

"Yes, him – he's the best you I've ever seen."

Sweeney was not sure whether or not to take this as a compliment.

"Actually, this is the best production of Sweeney Todd I've ever seen," she went on. "It all just – flows so nicely . . . and it's so damn accurate I'm astounded. That Bond fellow did well remembering everything I told him."

"Well, you were rather intimidating," Sweeney told her. "Sounded like _he'd_ be made into a pie if he didn't get everything correct, from the way you were barking at him."

"It's almost too accurate, though . . . some of these words in the musical, unless my memory's gone fuzzy, are verbatim to what really – " She whirled on him. "You helped Sondheim write it, didn't you?"

"I may have passed through Earth a few times while he was working."

"And he heard you?"

"The man becomes quite desperate for inspiration sometimes. You know what these artists are like. Very moody."

"No, I wouldn't know anything about _that_," she drawled, poking his shoulder.

_-1987-_

"I told you – didn't I tell you?"

"Yes, Nellie. You did tell me."

"I told you one day he would be one of our writers – I told you he was going to tackle our story. I just knew it. I mean, I know it's not official yet, but speaking with Sondheim about creating a movie – well, that's the first step, hmm? And Tim'll make it happen, I know it will."

"Tim?" he echoed with disdain. "You're on a first name basis?"

She chose to ignore this. "He must've seen the musical every single night he was in London all those years ago . . . and he was there for less than a week, if I recall correctly. But the way he watched the show – how intense and focused he was – you could practically see his mind whirling with the possibilities . . ."

Sweeney narrowed his eyes at her. "I think you just find him attractive."

"Well," said Nellie matter-of-factly, "that certainly helps."

_-2001-_

"Y'know, as much as I love the Broadway stage, I'm also quite fond of this concert stage set-up. It really – I don't know – enhances things."

"Yes," he agreed, peering out from where they stood in one of the theater's elevated boxes. "It does."

"This is quite a nice place to have it, too. I generally prefer seeing the musical in London; hearing myself with an American accent is just plain odd. But this San Francisco Symphony's done a lovely job, and so've these American actors."

"Yes . . ."

The pair fell into quiet, watching the cast move about the stage, listening to the ending chords of the final _Ballad of Sweeney Todd_. The actor playing Sweeney offered his arm to the woman playing Nellie. Sharing a smile, they linked arms and began to stroll towards the back of the stage.

Nellie was stymied. In all the productions of this musical that she had seen – and she had seen a good many – the man playing Sweeney always exited the stage in solitude.

"Where are they going?" she whispered.

Sweeney looked at her. Gave a smile that only she could see.

From below, the thespian barber and baker halted and snapped their heads towards the audience, a silent threat that none should follow them.

The lights went out.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And so it ends. Happy Christmas to each and every one of you. I know it's a little late in the day, but it IS still Christmas where I live. So I am going to say that I met my goal, even if not perfectly. xD

I hope posting the epilogue is an appropriate gift to thank all of you for coming on this journey with me, whether you've been reading my fics since DIFTA was a mere seedling in my brain or whether you hopped on sometime in the middle of the story.

If any of you are interested, I am also posting the first chapter of a new ST fic tonight. I know, I know – I said I needed a break from this fandom. Well, apparently the ST crew thought differently. xD It's a completely different monster than this novel – it's a novella with Johanna as the main character, and it charts her marriage, her aspirations, and her sanity following the end of the musical – but I would nonetheless love it if you guys would let me know your thoughts on this latest fic of mine.

Before we conclude, I feel it necessary to once more thank everyone who helped make this fic – which, five years ago, was nothing more than a germ of an idea – grow into what it is today.

The first shout-out is to the fantabulous MrsRuebeusHagridDursley. I really don't know what I would do without this girl. I no longer remember who was the very first person to read snippets of DIFTA, but Morgan was certainly among the first and has been nothing but supportive from the start. Whether exchanging novel-length e-mails about something as minute as the interior of Sweeney's razor case or talking me down from fits of writerly despair, Morgan has been with me through it all – and has never once turned me aside. Morgan, hopefully you're not reading this – because goodness knows you've read this fic enough! – but you really ought to hear once more what an awesome beta and friend you are.

My dear readers, if you have even a passing interest in Avengers or Star Trek fic, you should definitely check out Morgan's writings because she is just as fantabulous a writer as she is a beta. These days, she is going by MRHD on the web and tends to post more on AO3 and Livejournal than FF-Net – but I promise the online trek will be worth your while.

Second, a thank you to the also fantabulous roberre (who went by Saime Joxxers when I first posted this fic). I was incredibly humbled and flattered when, three or so years ago, the brilliant Robynne – who wrote superfreakingawesome ST fics and was basically legendary in this fandom – started reviewing MY li'l collection of ST fics. I was even more humbled and flattered (and, yes, giddy with fangirliness) when she offered to beta my novel. Robynne is one of the most thorough, critical, and complimentary betas I've ever had – and, if that weren't enough, she's also an amazing friend. Robynne, you'll never fully understand how invaluable your feedback on this story was, but I'm nonetheless not ever going to stop trying to convey how invaluable it was. Thank you, my coochy coochy cooer.

If, for some absurd reason, you have not yet read any of Robynne's ST fics, go do so immediately because they are virtually canonical fanon works. She's also writing prolifically for Once Upon A Time nowadays, so go peek at those fabulous fics, too.

A few other quick thank yous: to Phia Phoenix for encouraging this baby to grow before I'd even permitted myself to write an outline; to AngelofDarkness1605, NellieLovett, and CaptainSparrow-luv for never ceasing to politely nag me about neglecting my writing/editing; to Scarlett Burns for helping out with the first two chapters; to the awesome kids in my writing workshop three summers for giving me such honest (and blush-worthy) feedback on a chapter that, at the time, had never seen the light of day.

And, of course, to Christopher Bond, Stephen Sondheim, Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter, Tim Burton, George Hearn, Patti LuPone, Neil Patrick Harris, Michael Cerveris, the kids in the awesometastic local college production of ST I saw a few years back, etc, etc. None of this would exist without them.

Last, but hardly least, to each and every one of you who has exchanged many PMs with me, who has left several reviews, or even who has just read along silently. It truly has been a joy to share my little baby with you. As the lovely Paperclip-Assassin so rightly pointed out, to be able to bring joy to people through writing is a wonderful thing. Sometimes I beat myself up for spending so much of my life writing fan-fiction and not working very much on my "real," aka publishable, writings. But that is not the point of writing. The point of writing is to make people happy – both myself and others – and if this fic has succeeded in that (which, if I may praise myself for a moment, I believe that it has), then I can ask nothing greater.

And on that note, reviews are love.

Anonymous review replies:

_Lady Musket_: Aw, shucks. You're too kind, love. But what, might I ask, did you know? Because I truly don't know what you knew. xD

And yes, I pity Toby, too. But I've always been struck by the stage version of ST and how his character goes mad at the end due to all that Sweeney and Nellie have done to him. Emotionally, his madness is awful, but poetically, it is beautiful.

Anyway, thank you so much for reviewing, love. I've enjoyed hearing your responses to my fic!

_Emma_: Ha. Well, I do try to be one, love. ^^;; As I've said before, I don't like to say never when it comes to fan-fic because I simply never know when a plot bunny will bite. That said, however, I really don't see myself writing a sequel to this fic; Sweeney and Nellie have said what they have to. =) Thanks for reviewing, m'dear, and for sticking around so long with this fic!

_Guest_: Let's hope the Google translate of your review gave me semi-accurate results . . . xD Anyway, thank you so very much! I hope you come back for this chapter, because chapter thirty-four is NOT the end! This epilogue, however, is. In either case, I'm thrilled that you enjoyed the fic so much, and thank you for leaving your thoughts!


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